


The Runner

by anglophileadventures



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Depression, Eating Disorders, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Injury, Major Character Injury, Minor Character Death, Nightmares, Pre-Canon, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, movie!verse, well ok mostly canon compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2019-05-28 21:37:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 52,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15058328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anglophileadventures/pseuds/anglophileadventures
Summary: Finally the siren stopped, and the box had arrived. Gally and Alby pulled the doors open. Newt could see right away that his fears had been unfounded; this Greenie was already faring better than he had. He had a tense, determined look on his face, and he looked scared, but also ready. Ready to fight or run or do anything, really. His hands were held loosely down at his sides, but Newt saw them twitch and he knew the Greenie would be able to raise them at a moment’s notice.Every boy in the Glade had a story. Newt's began long before Thomas came up in the Box, as he helped to build their world, found a family, and met the Runner who changed everything.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tasteofdreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tasteofdreams/gifts).



The alarm of the box was incredibly loud, shattering the normally peaceful, quietly idyllic background noises of the Glade, sending the goats running for the opposite corner of their pen in fear. It grated against Newt’s eardrums and seemed to be drilling all the way into his brain. He pressed his hands against his ears to try to muffle the sound, and it helped some, but he could already feel a fierce headache forming at the back of his head.

This was the first time he had heard the alarm since his own arrival in the box. Hearing it brought back vivid, unpleasant memories: intense, visceral terror, the kind that froze the mind and paralysed the body; the kind that set his heart pounding so hard his vision twitched; the kind that sent hot and cold flashes radiating through him; the kind that made him lose control of bodily functions. The sense of loss, of missing something essential but not knowing what it was, but sensing it just out of his grasp, just there at the cusp of his memory, if only he could take hold of it. Two unfamiliar faces staring down at him, that to his panicked mind looked menacing, threatening.

Newt pushed the memories away forcefully; he needed to stay firmly in the present. There was someone new coming up in the box today, and he was going to do his best to ensure that they weren’t given the same welcome he was. There had to be a better way to welcome newbies to the Glade than literally scaring the shit out of them.

Finally the siren stopped, and the box had arrived. Gally and Alby pulled the doors open. Newt could see right away that his fears had been unfounded; this Greenie was already faring better than he had. He had a tense, determined look on his face, and he looked scared, but also ready. Ready to fight or run or do anything, really. His hands were held loosely down at his sides, but Newt saw them twitch and he knew the Greenie would be able to raise them at a moment’s notice. He also knew that they could probably pack a powerful punch, if their size and muscle content was anything to judge by. Really, all of him looked impressively muscular.

_This one is strong,_ Newt thought in awe. Physically and mentally. He looked like he could survive anything. _Well, that makes one of us,_ he thought grimly. He had no doubt this Greenie would outlast him. He wasn’t even sure if he himself would last to the arrival of the next Greenie, but this boy looked like he could not only survive, but thrive, and probably even make it out of this miserable place.

Newt wished him luck. He felt a little sad that he wouldn’t be there to see it, but something about this Greenie, Newt knew, before he had even heard his voice, that he deserved to survive. That he deserved better than the Maze and the Grievers and the hell the Creators had dropped them into. And Newt wanted him to have it.

“Easy there,” Newt said, putting on what he hoped was a reassuring smile and gesturing Gally and Alby to keep their glowering selves back. He hopped down onto one of the crates in the box, and slowly lowered himself down to the level of the other boy, trying to look as harmless as possible. The other boy looked wary and kept a few feet back, but he didn’t raise his hands, and Newt took that as a good sign.

“I know this is frightening. We’ve all been through the same thing, alright? We’ve all come up in the box like this, not remembering anything. But we’re your friends, right? We’re not going to hurt you. We all need to work together, we’re on the same team.”

“Who sent us here?” The other boy demanded immediately. “Why can’t I remember anything? Why are we here?”

Newt sighed. “We don’t know. We don’t know the answers to any of those questions. I know, it’s frustrating,” Newt said as he saw the Greenie open his mouth, cutting him off. “You’ll get your name back in a day or two. It’s the one thing they let us keep. But other than that…” he grimaced and shook his head. “We have no idea why we’re here or who did this to us.”

The Greenie frowned and took a step back. He looked restless, like he wanted to bolt. Newt should probably let him climb out of the box and run off some of that excess adrenaline, but he needed to make sure he wasn’t going to freak out first.

“I know it’s a lot to take in,” Newt said cautiously. “How are you feeling?”

“I just got dumped in some weird place where I don’t know anyone and I can’t remember anything about myself, including my name,” the other boy snapped. “How do you think I am?”

“Okay,” Newt said, unable to completely suppress the smile tugging at his mouth. “Ask a stupid question, get a stupid answer, I get it. But I’m sorry to have to tell you, that’s not the worst of it.”

The boy groaned. “Why do I get the feeling I don’t want to know?”

Rather than answering, Newt climbed back onto the crate, gesturing for the Greenie to follow as he climbed out of the box. He could hear him clambering up behind him, and turned to offer a hand to pull him out. The boy looked uncertainly at his hand, and in an instant Newt knew both that he didn’t need the help and that he instinctively wanted to reject the offer, but after only a few seconds hesitation he took Newt’s hand anyway, allowing Newt to pull him up out of the box and onto the grass.

The Greenie looked around, and Newt watched him take in the walls of the Maze, the fact that they were surrounded. “Where are we?” he mumbled, almost like he didn’t expect a real answer. “What is that?” he pointed at the East wall.

“We’re inside a giant maze,” Newt explained, voice level. “That’s why we can’t just leave. That’s why we’re all still here. Every night those doors close,” he pointed to the gap in the walls. “We think we’re supposed to find our way out through the maze, but we don’t know anything else about why we’re here or who put us here.”

“How far has anyone gotten in the maze?” the Greenie asked.

“Not far,” Newt admitted. “There’s only three of us, and there’s a lot to do around here just to keep us all alive. And it’s dangerous out there. There was a boy who died before I got here, he was… stung by something out there. We don’t know exactly what they are, but they come out at night. That’s why we only run the maze during the day. We take turns, one person runs while the other two work in the Glade.”

The boy looked Newt in the eye, and he saw that same determination as before. He was sure his first impression had been correct. This one was a survivor.

“I want to do that,” he said firmly. “I want to help find a way out. If I run the Maze, that will leave three people to work in the Glade, that’s better than before, right?”

“You just got here,” Newt protested, so shocked that he was having trouble gathering his thoughts to explain to the Greenie why that was a _terrible, terrible_ idea. “We have to train you, you can’t just - didn’t you hear me say it was dangerous? Do you want to die?”

The Greenie considered. “Okay. But after you’ve trained me. This is what I want to do.”

“I don’t think you understand how serious this is.”

“No, _you_ don’t understand,” the other boy argued. “I have to do this. I have to get out of here. I want to be a Runner.”


	2. Chapter 2

“I want to be a Runner.”

Newt wasn’t sure what to say after that proclamation; he stood there gaping until finally, Alby stepped forward.

“We can definitely see about that, in a day or two, but it’s too soon right now. We try to keep the Greenies alive for a few days at least before we throw them to the wolves.”

“You mean the Grievers?” Gally cut in. Newt wished he wouldn’t grin quite so maniacally at the newbie, who was looking back and forth between Alby and Gally, his face unreadable.

“What did you just call me?” he asked, facing Alby.

“I called you a Greenie,” Alby answered, folding his arms over his chest, and Newt winced as he took an intimidating step forward, “because that’s what you are.” Even though they were about the same height, he seemed to tower over the other boy.

“Until you remember your name, we have to call you something,” Gally said, still grinning. “And there are a lot worse things we could call you.”

Newt felt his heart sinking. _There they go again,_ he thought. _Can’t they rein themselves in just for a day or two? It’s like they’re trying to make it as hard on the newbie as possible._

The Greenie’s eyes shifted rapidly, still darting between Gally and Alby, and he took a step back. Newt saw him raise his arms, not all the way up in a fighting position, but about midway, and he crouched slightly. He reminded Newt of the goats when startled, ready to spring away at any moment.

And then his eyes sought out Newt’s. Newt held his gaze, and in those eyes he saw a question. Slowly, Newt pressed his mouth into a minute smile, and moved his head downward in the smallest nod. The Greenie’s eyes cleared, and his face set in determination once more.

Newt looked back to Alby and Gally, and he knew the look that had passed between himself and the Greenie hadn’t escaped them. Alby uncrossed his arms and took half a step back, and Gally… well, at least he had dropped his wolfish grin.

“We know this is a lot,” Alby said, echoing Newt’s words from earlier. “It’s intense. So if you need to take some time alone, go explore the Glade for a bit, that’s fine. All we ask is that you don’t go into the Maze yet. It’s too dangerous. Good that?”

The newbie narrowed his eyes and glanced at Newt again for half a second before looking back to Alby, and Newt remembered how confusing the odd words and phrases that they sometimes used had seemed to him when he first arrived. Yet another reminder that he was the odd one out, the outsider.

“Sure,” the Greenie answered finally, drawing the word out. With one last quick glance at Newt, he turned and jogged away towards the shelter of the trees, soon building up from a jog to a run to a flat-out sprint. Newt watched his retreating back, noting his even, smooth gait, his long, energy-conserving stride, and he thought he would indeed make an excellent Runner. He was naturally gifted at running, and perhaps more importantly, he seemed able to keep his cool in difficult, unfamiliar situations. When the Greenie had almost disappeared among the trees, Newt felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Alby standing there.

“Thanks, Newt,” Alby said, and Newt saw with a minor lurch of his stomach that Alby was wearing an approving smile. It was small, but it was there.

“For what?” Newt asked.

“For being so good with the Greenie,” Alby answered, removing his hand from Newt’s shoulder and gesturing towards where the Greenie had disappeared. “For trying to ease him into it, make something that’s really difficult go as smooth as possible. Look,” Alby sighed. “I know Gally and I aren’t always… the most approachable people. And I know you had a rough start. So I appreciate you doing this for the Greenie, that’s all.”

Newt blinked, shrugging away the momentary awkwardness. “You had the hardest job,” he said to Alby. “You had to do this alone. The more boys that get here, the easier it will be.”

“How many boys do you think are gonna be sent up here?” Alby asked. “How long will this go on? A year? Ten years? Until any of us that manage to live long enough die of old age?” Newt could tell by the tone of his voice that Alby didn’t expect a reply, but he gave one anyway.

“Let’s just take it one month at a time, yeah? Actually, shuck that, let’s take it one _day_ at a time.” This time it was Newt who clapped Alby on the shoulder. “Let’s just get through today, and then we’ll worry about tomorrow when we get there. Good that?”

“Good that,” Alby answered, and he sounded relieved, although Newt wasn’t sure why.

The three of them got to work unloading the supplies from the Box, and then it was business as usual in the Glade. It was Alby’s turn to run the Maze, so Newt and Gally were left to build the trellises for the bean vines they had planted several days ago, which were just beginning to grow long enough to need them. It wasn’t particularly taxing, but it was absorbing work, and soon Newt lost himself in constructing the lattices, his mind oddly comforted by the repeating patterns, something predictable to latch on to. They had been working in silence for a long time when suddenly Gally spoke, startling Newt out of his reverie.

“You’re not doing him any favours, you know,” he said without looking up from his task. “Being soft on the Greenie? It won’t help him in the long run. The softer you are on him, the longer it will take him to toughen up and adjust to life here.”

Newt bristled. “Oh, and you know this how, exactly? From all your successful Greenie introductions? Correct me if I’m wrong, but the only Greenie you’ve helped initiate before this one was me, and we both know how that went. Call me crazy, but that’s not what I’d call a glowing reference.”

“You were fine,” Gally argued stubbornly, still looking down at the trellis he was shaping. “We were tough on you, and you turned out fine. And Alby was tough on me, and I turned out fine.”

“I was fine, was I?” Newt asked angrily. “Apparently you and I remember my first week very differently.”

Gally finally looked up, meeting Newt’s eye, and Newt saw clearly his conviction. “Trust me, if we’d left you on your own to be a whimpering, snivelly mess, you would’ve been a whimpering, snivelly mess a lot longer, and it’ll be the same for this Greenie. Better to throw him in the deep end, and let him sink or swim.”

“And what if he sinks? What’s your sage wisdom then?” Newt demanded.

Gally set his jaw. “Then he wouldn’t have had what it takes to survive here anyway.”

Newt barked out a laugh, though he was far from amused. “You know, it wouldn’t surprise me at all if there _had_ been a bunch of Greenies before me, only you got them all killed with your brilliant philosophy.”

Gally’s eyes flashed. “How dare you. You think because you’ve been here a month you know everything there is to know? You have no idea what Alby and I went through before you got here.” His voice was getting louder and louder as he spoke, and his face was turning red. “And that’s _nothing_ compared to what Alby went through, alone. So don’t you dare say anything against Alby.”

Newt felt a stab of fear, and as his heart beat harder and harder and his vision narrowed, his mind flashed briefly back to his arrival in the Box, feeling that same primitive terror, before he pulled himself back. “I wasn’t having a go at Alby,” he protested. “I would never say anything against Alby for doing what he had to do to survive here, you know that. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean what I said about getting Greenies killed.” He took a deep breath and steeled his nerves. “But I still think easing them into it is the better way to go. Just because they _can_ survive a difficult initiation doesn’t mean they should have to. And I think Alby would agree with me,” he continued defiantly. “You were there, you heard what he said. Besides, different people might prefer different approaches. What works best for some might not necessarily work best for others.”

“What if you’re wrong?” Gally asked, clearly still believing he was. “What if your way is worse, and it makes it harder for the Greenie because he takes a lot longer to adjust?”

“If I’m wrong, then we’ll go back to your way, and you’ll never hear another word about it from me,” Newt answered soberly.

They didn’t see the Greenie again until nearly the end of the day. Newt was doing the evening round of milking the goats, when he noticed him jogging along the South wall, running his hand along the stones as he went, heading towards the goat pens. Newt saw the newbie looking at him, and he gave a small, shy wave. The other boy nodded in acknowledgement, and adjusted course away from the wall, towards the animal pens and towards Newt. Part of him wondered if he had been watching them, maybe even for most of the day, and waited until Newt was alone to approach him.

But no, that was a silly thought. Why would he do that?

“Hey,” Newt called, once the Greenie had gotten close enough to be within hailing distance distance. “How’s it going? Have you gotten a feel for the place? Have you remembered your name yet?”

The other boy shook his head. “I still don’t remember anything,” he said ruefully. “But I did look around some, got my bearings.”

“Did it help?”

The other boy shrugged. “I still have a lot of questions,” he said, his eyes burning a hole into Newt.

“Go ahead,” Newt said, motioning with his hand as if to say, _let me hear it._ “I’ll do my best, but like I said, we don’t have many answers.”

“Well, they’re mostly questions about you. The three of you, I mean, and your life here.”

“Alright,” Newt said, a little surprised but still willing to to anything he could to help. “What are your questions?”

“How long have you been here?”

“I’ve been here a month,” Newt said, then anticipating the next question, added, “Gally’s been here a month longer than me, so two months. And Alby… well, Alby was the first, so he’s been here, I think it’ll be four months now? He counted, ticking off his fingers one by one. “A month alone, a month for the boy who died, a month with Gally, and a month with me.”

“So a new boy gets sent up every month?”

“Yep. Once a month, so far. Like clockwork.”

“And no one remembers anything when they come up? But you said we get our names back in a day or two, how does that work? Have you ever remembered anything else besides your name, anything at all?” The questions tumbled out of his mouth one after the other, rapid fire, as though he had been holding them back as long as he could but now they had burst free and nothing could stop them.

Newt shook his head patiently. “I’ve never remembered anything else, and as far as I know the others haven’t either. As for the names, I don’t know if it’s the same for everyone, but for me I didn’t get it back until my third day. I don’t know how to describe it, it just popped into my head and I knew that was me.”

"What is your name?" the Greenie asked, his eyes still focused intensely on Newt. "You never actually told me. And you've mentioned the other two are Gally and Alby, but I still don't know which is which."

"Right, sorry," Newt said, feeling an embarrassed blush spread rapidly over his face. He couldn't believe he had forgotten to actually introduce them all; but then again, he hadn't needed to introduce anyone for what essentially amounted to his entire life. He had met Gally and Alby, and that had been that, for the whole month. He couldn't even remember if they had ever actually introduced themselves, of if he had simply figured it out from hearing them call each other by name. "Alby is the black guy who smiles more often, Gally is the white guy with the weird eyebrows. And my name is Newt."

The Greenie narrowed his eyes. “I’m trying to decide if what you just said was racist.”

“What?” Newt asked, bewildered. “That Alby was black? It’s not racist, he _is_ black.”

“Yeah, but by using that as his primary description you’re reducing him to only his race.”

“I also said Gally was the white guy,” Newt pointed out. “And I wasn’t saying anything bad about him being black, it’s just an easy and obvious differentiation to make between two people when you didn’t know which was which. By the way, you look like you’re Asian, in case you were wondering.”

“Dude, do you have any idea how huge Asia is, how many countries it contains?” the newbie asked. “That’s a very nonspecific and weak description. It basically tells me nothing. Am I Indian, Saudi Arabian, Iranian, Thai, Taiwanese, Kazakhstani? I could even technically be from Russia and still be considered Asian.”

“Okay, fine,” Newt said. “You look East Asian, probably Chinese or Korean, but I’m not 100% sure. Is that better?”

“Wow,’” the Greenie muttered, shaking his head, but Newt could see his mouth grow tight and his cheeks dimpling with what looked like a constrained smile, and his eyes were shining with what might be mirth. “I can’t believe how racist you’re being right now. Here we are, in the Year of Our Lord - ” he cut off for a moment, realising he had no idea what year it was, and Newt thought he was barely holding back a laugh before he plowed on determinedly, “whatever year it is, and I’m still having to deal with this shit.”

“I was telling you about your appearance! Don’t you want to know what you look like?” Newt asked, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. “I know you don’t remember what you look like, I was trying to help you out.”

“Maybe you should stop being so fixated on race,” the Greenie taunted him, tilting his head.

Newt could feel his own cheeks burning with the effort of holding back a smile, and he nearly shook with suppressed laughter. “Maybe I’m just trying to celebrate our differences, instead of pretending we’re all the same.”

“Sure, ok,” the other boy said, rolling his eyes. “Now that we’ve established the fact that you’re racist and I’m probably of Chinese or Korean descent, I can get back to my other thought about what you said, which was _what the fuck kind of name is Newt?_ ”

Newt shrugged. “I don’t know, it’s just my name. That’s all I remember. Did you have any more actual questions, or are you just going to keep making fun of me?”

“Oh yeah, I forgot I was asking questions before I got sidetracked by your racism.” Newt couldn’t contain the burst of laughter that escaped from him at that comment, but he tried to cover it with a cough. The Greenie’s eyes traveled up and down him quickly, and Newt could’ve sworn his face twitched into a smile for a fraction of a second before he continued. “How do you survive here? Do you grow and make everything yourselves?”

“We grow pretty much all of our own food, the fruit and vegetables and grain at least, and for meat we sometimes eat one of the goats or pigs, but none of us really like to slaughter them that often, it’s gross and it makes me feel ill and then I don’t even want to eat the meat anyway.”

The Greenie nodded, indicating that he understood. “Was that building here when you got here, or did you build it yourselves?” he asked, pointing at the Homestead.

“Alby and Gally built most of it before I got here, but I helped some. As I understand it, there was almost nothing here when Alby first arrived, except for the animals and their pens. Everything else he built from scratch, by himself or with Gally.”

“Where do you all sleep? In there?”

“We call that the Homestead,” Newt told him. “And there are some beds there, but the mattresses are lumpy and uncomfortable because we made them ourselves, they’re stuffed full of dried grass. I prefer sleeping outside anyway, we have some hammocks and it’s quite pleasant, at least when the weather’s nice.”

The Greenie nodded again, looking away from Newt to cast his gaze around the area. His mouth twisted into a hesitant grimace, and Newt thought he looked nervous, like he wasn’t sure whether he should ask his next question.

“Hey, whatever you want to ask, go ahead,” he told the other boy. “If you’re worried about asking a stupid question, I won’t say anything about it, you just got here and you’re confused and disoriented, there are no stupid questions really. And after what I’ve already said to embarrass myself, nothing you can say would be worse.” Newt flashed him a reassuring grin, and as the newbie’s eyes locked onto his, he could practically see his resolve forming, pressing his lips together in determination before blurting out his question.

“Why did the other two - Gally and Alby - why did they look like they wanted to eat me alive? Why are you the only one telling me anything about this place?”

Newt sighed. So that was what that look was all about. Time to do some damage control. “They just have a very different philosophy of how to break Greenies in to this place.”

“What’s their philosophy?” the Greenie asked, calm on the surface, but underneath, Newt sensed a current of defiance, and his eyes flashed as if to say, _let them do their worst, let them try and see what happens._

“They think, or at least Gally thinks, it would be better to make your arrival as rough as possible, so you know what to expect from this place, and to be honest he has a point, it can be pretty brutal here. But I think it would be better to ease you and the rest of them into it, let you all adjust slowly, so you have a better chance of survival.”

“Fuck, you guys really don’t mess around with how dangerous this place is,” the Greenie muttered. “I know I just got here and I haven’t been in the Maze yet, but I don’t know, it doesn’t seem that bad to me? Aside from not remembering anything about myself, that kinda sucks.”

Newt felt conflicted; on the one hand, his instinct was to try and hammer home to the newbie exactly how terrible living in the Maze was, but on the other, wasn’t that exactly what he had been trying to avoid with his whole approach to welcoming the Greenie? Wasn’t it a good thing that he didn’t really understand what was so bad about the place? As long as he was being safe, of course. Newt felt his resolve solidifying; right now, he would steer the newbie firmly in the direction of hope and positivity. Newt had wanted better for the other boy as soon as he saw the Greenie emerge from the Box. There was no need to urge him to despair as Newt himself had done.

Besides, he liked the idea that it could be possible for someone else to have hope. It must be possible. They didn’t all have to be like him.

“You’re right, not remembering who we were is shit,” Newt said, grimacing softly. “But we do get our names back. I know it’s not much, but it’s a little piece of yourself that you get to keep, and we have to take the small victories where we can.” The Greenie was staring at him intensely, almost hungrily. “But more importantly, now you get the chance to be a new person, maybe a better one. We may not know who we were before, they may not even exist anymore, and we can’t do anything about that, but what we can do is control who we are now.”

For a moment, Newt was sure he saw something hidden in the other boy’s eyes, something wistful and almost sad. But then his gaze shifted, and his eyes cleared, and he said, “Thanks for the pep talk, I’m so inspired.”

Newt may not have known much, but he knew sarcasm when he heard it.

“Okay, fine,” he said, barely stopping himself from rolling his eyes. Shuck, this Greenie was already starting to rub off on him. “Glad I could help. Anyway, you’re right about the Glade itself, it’s really not so bad, although it is fairly hard work.” Newt paused, and the Greenie nodded. “But listen, we’re not messing about or exaggerating when we talk about the Maze,” Newt told him. “You haven’t seen it in action yet, but it is truly dangerous. It does have a 25% mortality rate. I don’t mean to scare you, but just - promise you’ll be careful, yeah?”

“20% mortality rate, now that I’m here,” the newbie reminded him.

Newt huffed out a breath. “That’s still too large a percentage. Just say you’ll be careful, won’t you?”

“Fine, I’ll be careful,” he said, rolling his eyes once again. “But you know, this isn’t a big enough sample size. The statistics could be skewed.”

“Right, of course, the statistics,” Newt said, once again biting off a smile. Somehow this Greenie had gotten him to smile more in the last ten minutes than he had the entire rest of the time he’d been here.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I like your way - ” he was interrupted by a loud crashing noise; it sounded as though something heavy had fallen in the Homestead, and the sound cut through the air. Newt didn’t have time to wonder what it might be, because the goats had startled at the noise and went leaping and bounding away from it.

Which, unfortunately, meant they were headed right towards them.

Newt held his ground, used to handling and herding the goats, knowing they would probably run around him, but the Greenie stumbled back, tripped over the uneven ground and fell backward. Newt watched him fall as if in slow motion, horrified but unable to do anything to stop it. He smacked his head on one of the beams of the fence on the way down, and Newt winced internally at both that and the way his head bounced on the ground when he landed.

He rushed over, scattering the goats, who continued to run panicked circles around the perimeter of the pen. Newt dropped to his knees beside the newbie’s head, his hands fluttering nervously as he tried to decide whether to touch the other boy or not. His eyes were closed, and he wasn’t moving or making any noise, which scared Newt significantly. _Please be okay, please be okay,_ his mind repeated desperately. _Please don’t be…_ even silently, he couldn’t bring himself to finish the thought. He would be okay. He had to be.

He settled for patting the Greenie gently on the shoulders, and then on the cheek, trying not to actually move him too much in case he was seriously injured. “Are you okay? Please wake up,” he said over and over in a small voice. He felt as though he should be doing more, but he had no idea what.

All of a sudden the Greenie groaned and stirred, and Newt felt such a powerful relief that he sat back on his heels, hand over his heart as if that might somehow slow its panicked racing.

“Fuck, that hurt,” the other boy said, reaching a hand back to rub the back of his head and attempting to sit up, but Newt pressed a hand to the middle of his chest, holding him down.

“Wait, you should take it slowly,” Newt cautioned him, using his other hand to support the back of the Greenie’s neck. “You could have a concussion.”

The Greenie pushed himself up on his elbows, and with his hand still on the back of the other boy’s neck, Newt slowly, inch by inch, allowed him to sit all the way up.

“How’s your head?” Newt asked, once he was in an upright position. “Any dizziness? Nausea?”

“I’m a little dizzy,” he admitted. “But…”

“But what?” Newt asked. He looked deep into the other boy’s eyes, his own eyes shifting rapidly back and forth between the two pupils, trying to determine if they were dilated to the same size.

The Greenie pulled his head back a few inches. “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked sharply.

“I’m trying to see if your pupils are dilated to different sizes, it’s a symptom of being concussed,” Newt explained, confused. What else would he be doing?

“Oh. Right.” The newbie’s eyes dropped, and Newt just barely stopped himself from putting his hand under the other boy’s chin and forcing him to look back into his eyes. He had already gotten a good enough look at his pupils, and they seemed to be the same size, so he should stop worrying. Instead he sat back on his heels once more, and then he remembered the newbie had been about to say something.

“What were you going to say?” Newt asked.

“I was going to say… I think I remembered my name.”

“You did?” Newt was shocked for a moment, but then grinned at him. “That’s great, what is it?”

“It’s… Minho.”

Newt’s grin stretched even broader, and he held out his hand, which the other boy took and shook firmly, looking vaguely amused but still pleased.

“Nice to officially meet you, Minho. Welcome to the Glade.”


	3. Chapter 3

Once again Newt found that his fears regarding the Greenie, who they now knew was named Minho, were unfounded. Minho took naturally to being a Runner, and soon he was going out nearly every day by himself, searching the Maze, mapping it. He stayed close to the Glade at first, as he had been instructed, to ensure he returned before the doors closed, but Newt could tell by the way he came back every day a little later than the day before, and increasingly more tired, that he was running farther and farther into the maze. Minho was a risk taker, and Newt would never tell him what he should or shouldn’t do, but that didn’t stop him waiting anxiously every afternoon until Minho ran back through the doors, breathing a sigh of relief and knowing he could relax for one more day.

Truth be told, the rest of them were glad of the excuse to stay in the Glade, and to leave running the Maze to someone else. Minho was the only one of them who actively wanted to go out there, risking life and limb for the chance of an escape. Not that the rest of them didn’t want to escape; Newt thought he might happily saw off his leg if it meant getting out of their de facto prison, but there was something about the Maze and the unseen, if not unheard, Grievers that terrified the living daylights out of him. He had lived in dread of every third day, taking his turn running, before Minho arrived. Now, he only had to go out on the odd day that Minho wanted a break, which thankfully wasn’t often.

Maybe he felt grateful to Minho because he didn’t have to go into the Maze as often anymore. Or maybe they simply had compatible personalities, and would have gotten on well no matter what the circumstances. But either way, it wasn’t long before Newt felt closer to Minho than either Alby or Gally, despite knowing the other two longer. And he wasn’t certain, but he thought that Minho liked him better than the other two as well. He never sought out Alby or Gally, never asked them questions; in fact he only talked to them at all when it was strictly necessary.

Newt didn’t notice at first, that when given an option Minho always seemed to gravitate towards him; it was as though he simply woke up one day to find it that way. By the time Minho had been in the Glade almost three weeks, Newt could hardly remember a time before he was there. He just fit himself into their lives, and into Newt’s life especially, like he had always been a part of it. 

Newt couldn’t decide if the brevity of his life before Minho made it easier to overwrite, or the fact that it had been so intense and that his entire life’s experience was crammed into such a short time period made it even more impressive. And really, Minho hadn’t actually overwritten everything before; it was more that it didn’t seem to matter as much. It didn’t weigh as heavily on him, because now he had a friend, or at least someone who made him feel just a tiny bit less like he was drowning in his loneliness, suffocated by it. All he had ever known was that pressing, immediate absence of connection, that despair of isolation, and now Minho had lifted it. And he had to admit, now that there were four of them, it was nice not to be the odd one out anymore.

He felt immediately comfortable with Minho, in a way he had never quite felt with Alby and Gally, and he knew that probably had a lot to do with the manner of his arrival and the difficulty of his first week in the Glade, but that didn’t change the way things were. A small part of himself, buried deep inside, had felt like it was calling out for something, although he wasn’t sure what. And in a way, it felt like Minho had answered that call.

They sat together at breakfast and at dinner, and at lunch on the rare days they were both in the Glade at lunch time. In the evenings, Minho went with Newt on his final round of milking the goats, and sat on an overturned bucket watching while Newt worked, sometimes silently, sometimes exchanging words here and there. Although he was terrified of going in the Maze himself, Newt was intensely curious about how Minho’s explorations were going, and whether he had found anything promising, and Minho seemed eager to talk about it, or at least as eager as he ever seemed to talk about anything. Newt thought perhaps he needed a sounding board, someone to whom he could speak his thoughts and ideas aloud as he processed them, and Newt was happy to play that role.

Newt watched Minho come back from the Maze day after day, movements stiff and careful, wincing occasionally when he sat down or got back to his feet after sitting a long time. He knew Minho was sore from running; he remembered his own aches and pains from when he first started running the Maze, and he knew Minho’s were probably worse because he had been running so much farther, and went out every day.

Newt wished he could do something to help. Minho did so much for him, probably without even realising, just by being there. He wanted to try and repay him in any way he could.

He took one of the animal feed buckets and went to the cookfire, selecting several live coals and transferring them to the bucket using a pair of tongs. He then got as many rags as he could find, made from bits of old clothes that they had ripped to use as towels or to clean with, soaked them in water, and added them to the bucket with the coals.

Newt walked up to the area in the trees by the hammocks where Minho habitually collapsed when he got in from the Maze, lying prostrate for several minutes, too tired even to move. Newt felt exhausted just looking at him.

“Knock, knock,” he said, waiting for Minho to look up at him before holding up the bucket. “I thought maybe you could use this.”

“What is that?” Minho squinted at the bucket. He slowly pushed himself up onto his elbows, wincing every few inches.

“It’s the closest we can get to a heating pad in here,” Newt answered, sitting down cross-legged at Minho’s shoulder. “May I?”

Minho nodded, sinking back down and resting his head sideways on his crossed arms. His eyes stayed open, and they followed Newt as he took one of the hot towels out of the bucket.

“Where are you most sore?” Newt asked.

“Ugh, everywhere,” Minho groaned. “Just, all over.”

“Fair enough,” Newt said, chuckling to himself. “Shall I start with your back, then?”

Minho nodded again, moving his head just enough to be noticeable. He kept his eyes open until Newt placed the first hot towel on his back; as soon as it made contact he closed his eyes and let out a noise that was half sigh, half groan.

“That feels amazing,” he said, eyes still closed. Newt continued placing hot cloths until Minho’s back was covered.

“When they cool off, let me know and I can swap them out with warm ones from the bucket,” Newt told him. “And in a bit if you want to sit up, we can do the front of your thighs, I remember mine getting really sore when I first started running.”

Minho nodded again, more emphatically this time. His eyelids fluttered open for half a second, and in that brief moment he made eye contact with Newt.

Newt’s heart skipped a beat, and he felt it like an aching emptiness in his chest, like his heart had popped out of existence for a moment, and when it returned it beat twice as hard and fast to make up for its absence.

_What the hell was that?_ Newt felt bewildered. It was almost as if he were afraid of Minho, of the Greenie, of all people, which was ridiculous.

Maybe he was developing some kind of heart condition, from the stress of the Maze. That wouldn’t surprise him. He would probably have a heart attack one day, and just keel over and die.

_If only._

Newt mentally shook himself. _Snap out of it,_ he thought. _Focus. The hot cloths._ He wasn’t sure how long he had been lost in thought, but it had felt like several minutes. He gingerly touched one of the towels on Minho’s back and found it had cooled to about ambient temperature; when he checked the others they were all the same, so he put them back in the bucket to warm up again and replaced them with warm ones. After he finished, Minho stirred slightly; his eyes flew open again, and this time they stayed open, locking onto Newt’s, making him freeze, breath caught in his throat. His heart seemed to have vanished again, but this time it hadn’t come back at all.

“Thank you,” Minho said softly, eyes searching.

“No problem,” Newt answered lightly, forcing himself to maintain eye contact even though every neuron in his brain was screaming at him to look away.

“No, seriously,” Minho continued. “Thank you, Newt. You didn’t have to do this.”

Newt nodded, swallowing down his protests that it was no big deal, and instead trying to communicate to Minho with just his eyes that this gesture could only repay him a tiny fraction for everything he had given Newt. “Did you go particularly far today?” Newt asked, for something to do besides just sitting there staring at him. “Is that why you’re so sore?”

“Kind of,” Minho said. “I’ve been exploring this passage I found a few days ago. I thought it seemed promising, it’s the longest passage without a dead end that I’ve found so far. I still haven’t gotten to the end of it, it goes on what feels like forever.”

Newt froze. “Do you think it could be… a way out?” The question came out a whisper, his throat narrowing, strangling the words. Part of him despised that note of hopefulness, but he couldn’t keep it entirely out of his voice.

Minho shook his head. “It’s too soon to say. Like I said, it looks promising; but then again, it might just go all the way around the Glade in a circle. I’ll have to keep exploring and drawing the maps to be sure.”

Newt frowned and turned away, heart sinking. _Of course it’s not a way out, you idiot,_ he told himself. _Whoever put us here wouldn’t make it that simple. Stop getting your hopes up. Stop it._ For perhaps the fiftieth time since he had arrived, the awful thought occurred to him: _what if there was no exit?_ What if they were stuck inside an unsolvable maze?

Newt was torn from this line of thinking by Minho stirring and pushing himself up on his elbows again. Newt was pleased to see that the movement seemed easier this time around, less stiff.

“I think I’m ready to do my legs now,” Minho said. Newt collected the cloths from his back, and Minho pushed himself up more, swinging his legs around in front of him, wincing softly as the overused leg muscles stretched. When he was sitting up, legs sticking straight out in front of him, leaning back on his hands, Newt took more freshly-heated rags from the bucket and placed them on top of his legs.

He wondered if it would be going too far to offer to rub Minho’s shoulders. It would almost certainly be going too far to offer to massage his legs. Minho leaned forward and put his hands on his thighs, squeezing slightly, and Newt knew from when he used to massage his own legs after running how much it could help, the fingers digging into the meat of the muscle, right where it was most sore, until the tension eased and the ache softened around the edges. The question was on the tip of his tongue, and his fingers itched to perform the task, to knead circles in Minho’s muscles, which were not insubstantial; he could do the entire expanse of Minho’s back, those broad shoulders, so much flesh and sinew to -

“So, do you do this for everyone? Or am I special?” Minho spoke suddenly, his voice cutting through Newt’s thoughts, and Newt looked up to see Minho watching him. Newt wondered exactly how long he had been watching. From the piercing nature of Minho’s gaze, Newt had the unsettling feeling that Minho knew exactly what he was thinking, and for some reason that idea caused a faint heat to bloom on Newt’s cheeks. He didn’t know why he should be embarrassed; all he had been thinking about was offering to massage his sore muscles.

“Um,” Newt said. _Brilliant. What an intelligent response._ “I haven’t done this for the others, no. They were already used to running by the time I got here, I guess.”

Minho pressed his lips together and nodded once. They sat in silence for a beat, Newt trying to think of something more interesting to say than ‘um’.

“You know, you’re different from the other two. Alby and Gally,” Minho commented, sounding offhand. “You haven’t been as hardened by this place.”

Newt was startled. Had Minho really read him that quickly and easily? “What, you don’t think I’m tough?” he asked, trying to pass it off as a joke, but inside the words were ringing in his ears, _weak, you’re weak, everyone can see it, you’re weak._ It wasn’t surprising, really, that Minho had already caught on. It must have been obvious. The others probably all talked about it, about him and how pathetic he was, when he wasn’t around.

Minho tilted his head, considering. “No, you’re definitely tough,” he said, and Newt received his second shock in as many minutes. Minho thought he was tough. _Minho,_ the born Runner, who didn’t seem to be afraid of anything, not the Maze, not the Grievers, and certainly not the Creators. _Minho thinks you’re tough?_ “But you’re still… I don’t know, you’re still nice?” Minho continued, shrugging helplessly. “You’re tough, and you’re strong, but you’re not _hard._ Not like the other two.”

“Well, I haven’t been here as long,” Newt said. He was too flustered to try and process what Minho had said immediately, so instead he tucked it away in his mind to dissect later. “And Alby had to be here all on his own. Imagine coming up the way you did, but then having to survive here a whole month by yourself. And he had no way of knowing there would be more of us coming; for all he knew, he would be here by himself forever. That’s bound to change a person.”

“Okay, but what’s Gally’s excuse?” Minho said, and Newt had to bite his lip to hide the smile that tried to burst onto his face.

Minho reached out and put his hand on Newt’s knee. “Listen, I’m not trying to say anything bad about either of them, I know they had to go through a lot, and I respect that.” He paused, looking up as he thought. “Well, I still think Gally’s kind of a dick. But he’s alright. I just mean, I think…” he trailed off, and Newt could have sworn he saw Minho’s eyes dart away nervously and the tip of his tongue flick out to lick his lips before he continued. “Well, I like you better. I like that you’re still nice, despite what you’ve been through. I just - I like being with you.”

Newt wasn’t quite sure how to reply to that. He sat blinking at Minho for a few seconds before he recovered enough to say, “Cool. Thanks. I like you too.”

Minho smiled, just enough for his cheeks to crease and dimple, and Newt felt his heart vanish for the third time that afternoon.

Yep, he was definitely developing some kind of heart condition. Or maybe he had a congenital defect that he had never noticed before but that was now being aggravated. Because of stress.

“I’m going to go see if Gally needs any help with dinner,” Newt said, moving to stand up. “I’ll leave the bucket here if you want to keep heating your legs. You can just dump the coals back in the firepit when you’re done.” Then he all but ran away, too desperate to escape to notice whether Minho was watching him leave. Not that it mattered.

_‘I like you too’? Fuck’s sake._

Newt tried to blame the heat spreading from his face down to his neck on the fact that he was practically running to the Homestead. He almost managed to fool himself.

_You’re a fucking idiot._


	4. Chapter 4

The alarm rang through the Glade again. It was the third time now that Newt had heard it, and in many ways this time was no different; but in the most important way, this time was completely different. Unlike the two previous times, this time, Newt had someone by his side, someone who felt like an extension of himself.

“Do they have to make the noise _that_ loud?” Minho muttered to Newt, standing at his shoulder. “I mean, it’s good that we have a warning I guess, but it doesn’t need to be quite that eardrum-shattering.”

“I think it’s so we can hear it no matter where we are in the Glade,” Newt said back.

“Oh, cool. Now that I know _why_ it’s so loud, it doesn’t bother me at all.”

Newt felt his mouth tugging upward at the corners. “Will you can the sass for five minutes? We’re about to have to introduce a new Greenie, and who knows how freaked out they’ll be? I’m trying to focus.”

“Fine,” Minho said, shrugging before looking slyly at Newt. “Just remember to actually introduce yourself this time. They’ll probably want to know your name.”

In spite of himself, a faint heat spread across Newt’s cheeks at the mention of his gaff on Minho’s first day. _You would think I would have gotten over being embarrassed about that by now,_ Newt sighed to himself. _Apparently not._

“There’s a lot of weird shit to explain here,” Newt protested. “And I was trying to explain it all without giving you a coronary. Sorry if my name wasn’t at the top of the list.”

“Your name should definitely be _somewhere_ on the list of ‘weird shit to explain’, though,” Minho said, with the air of someone pointing out something very helpful. “Since it is a pretty weird name.”

“Jesus, do you ever take a break? Don’t you get tired of the constant quipping?”

“Sometimes,” Minho answered breezily. “But if that’s the price I have to pay to provide you with such high-class entertainment, then I’m willing to make that sacrifice.”

“So generous of you.”

“What can I say, I’m a saint.”

Newt snorted a laugh.

“Shut up, you know you love my humour,” Minho retorted, nudging Newt with his elbow.

“It’s genuinely the highlight of my day,” Newt said, and he only meant it a little bit sarcastically.

The box arrived, and like last time, Newt was the one to approach the Greenie. But this time, the Greenie had a very different reaction.

Newt climbed down into the box, and the Greenie immediately backed up as far away from him as he could get, until his back was pressed into the metal grate of the walls. He looked like he might burst into tears any second.

“Hi,” Newt said quietly, trying to keep his voice as calm and his posture as non-threatening as possible. “My name is Newt. Do you remember your name?”

The other boy didn’t answer, but a tear fell from his eyes and trickled down his cheek. Newt thought he might not have even noticed, he was so scared, all of his attention focused on Newt and the other three boys still up on ground level.

“That’s okay,” Newt tried to reassure him. “That’s normal actually, none of us remembered our names when we first got here, or anything about ourselves, for that matter. You’ll get your name back eventually, maybe today, maybe in a day or two.”

The other boy still didn’t say anything. He whimpered, pressing himself backward into the metal sides of the box so hard Newt was sure there would be imprints on his skin. Another tear fell, and then two more, chasing the first down his cheeks and meeting under his chin to drip down and land on his chest.

Newt leaned back slightly, trying to give the newbie as much space as he could. “Hey, it’s alright,” he said in a soothing voice. “We’re not going to hurt you. We’re your friends, yeah? We’ve all been exactly where you are now, and I know it’s scary as hell, but in a few days you’ll be one of us, no problem.”

Finally the Greenie spoke. “I want to go home,” he whispered sadly. Newt felt his heart break.

“I know,” he answered quietly. “I know. But this is it. This is the only home we have.”

“Where are we?” the Greenie asked, still whispering.

“We call it the Glade. Why don’t you come and see it? Get out of this cramped box, meet the others?” Newt suggested, smiling. The newbie looked uncertain, but he followed Newt as he climbed up onto one of the crates of supplies. Minho bent down and hauled first Newt, then the other boy out. Newt noticed that this newbie didn’t hesitate before accepting the hand Minho offered.

“Like I said before, my name is Newt,” he explained again, in case the Greenie had forgotten. It was a lot to take in, after all. “This is Minho, this is Alby, and he’s Gally,” he said, pointing to each of them in turn. The newbie’s eyes followed his hand to each of the three other boys as he made the introductions, wide and terrified-looking. “Over there is the Homestead, that’s where we eat, and next to it is the Council Hall where we have group meetings. And most of us sleep over there, in the trees where you can see the hammocks.” As he named each place, he gestured in its direction.

“Slow down,” Minho hissed at him. “You’re giving the poor kid information overload.”

“Oh, sorry,” Newt apologised, chastened. “You’ll pick it up as you go, though, you’ll see. It’s nothing too complicated. The most important thing is to stay out of the Maze, especially right before sunset, when the doors close.”

“You haven’t told him what the Maze is yet,” Minho murmured. Newt shot him a wide-eyed, exasperated look while exhaling heavily through his nose. “What?” Minho asked innocently. “I’m helping.”

Barely restraining himself from rolling his eyes, Newt turned back to the Greenie, who was silently looking between him and Minho. “Basically, out there is a giant Maze, and we’re trapped in the middle. Minho goes out every day to look for an exit, he’s our Runner, but you shouldn’t go out there, at least not yet, it’s too dangerous. The walls move around and there are monsters we call Grievers that come out at night. So don’t go out there, got it? Leave that to Minho.”

The Greenie nodded solemnly. He hadn’t spoken again since his whispered question, but at least Newt couldn’t see any more tears, and he looked slightly less like a strong gust of wind might bowl him over.

“Any questions?” Newt asked. The Greenie shook his head. “Do you want some time alone, to process? If you like, you can - ”

“No,” the Greenie said hastily, starting forwards, then hesitating and moving back again. “I don’t - I can’t, I can’t be on my own right now.”

“Okay, fair enough,” Newt answered, pressing his lips together, brow furrowing.

“Not to interrupt, but I should probably get going,” Minho said. “It’s already way past the time I usually go out.” He touched Newt lightly on the arm by way of farewell, and Newt tried to ignore the tingling of electricity spreading across his skin from the point of contact as he nodded at Minho. Minho turned and jogged away toward the doors, picking up to a faster pace just before he crossed the threshold into the Maze. Newt felt his absence like a physical weight pressing onto his chest.

He turned back to the newbie, who was still standing there silently. Newt fidgeted as he tried to figure out what to do next. With Minho, even with all the mistakes he had made, everything had seemed to flow easily from one thing to the next. But now, everything felt stilted, awkward; this Greenie just stood there and didn’t offer any clues.

“So…” Newt hemmed as he thought about what to say. “Do you want to hang around with Gally and Alby? They’re working on building a new addition to the Homestead, right guys?” He looked over to Alby for confirmation, and Alby nodded once. “Or you can come with me, I’m about to feed the animals and milk the goats.”

The newbie visibly perked up at the mention of animals. His eyes lit with new interest, and he appeared several inches taller as he stood up straighter, posture eager and leaning forward. “Animals? What animals do you have?”

Newt felt a relieved smile cross his face. This newbie would find his place, just as Minho had, just as they all had eventually. “We have goats, pigs and chickens,” he told the other boy. “Do you want to help me feed them and look after them for a bit?”

The Greenie nodded enthusiastically, already seeming more at ease. Gally and Alby headed off toward the Homestead without another word, and only a brief backward glance and small smile from Alby, and then Newt was leading the Greenie over to the animal pens, showing him the chicken coop, the pig pens, the goat pastures where the goats grazed during the day.

“Most of them are pretty low-maintenance actually, which is nice,” he explained. “The most labour-intensive are probably the pigs, but even they’re pretty easy. And the goats do have to be milked twice a day, we’ve weaned the kids and we keep them separate from the does. But other than that, they mostly look after themselves. Gives me more time in the vegetable gardens.” He grinned at the newbie, who didn’t exactly smile back, but he looked more relaxed than he had so far. “So, you like animals?”

The Greenie nodded. “They feel… familiar, somehow. I feel more comfortable around them. I think I may have worked with animals, before…?” At the reminder of his memory loss, the Greenie’s face tensed again, and he looked small and frightened.

“That’s great,” Newt jumped in to encourage him before he could become upset again. “Once you’ve been here a few more days, you’ll see how it is, but we all have roles that we’ve sort of fallen into, doing the things that feel most comfortable. If you like, maybe you can help with the animals?”

The newbie nodded, the tension in his face easing slightly, and he looked hopeful.

The rest of the day, the newbie followed Newt around, from his rounds feeding and taking care of the animals, to later in the Gardens where Newt had been planning a new squash section.

Although he couldn’t recall any specific instances, he found himself daydreaming of pumpkins and pumpkin-related food: pumpkin in bread; in cake; in a little tart with a light, flaky crust. It was ridiculous, of course. None of them knew how to make any of those things; even if they did, where would they get the ingredients? Pastry flour was finicky. Newt thought this, and then wondered how he even knew that. He didn’t remember learning it, or ever baking anything before. Perhaps he used to bake with someone, a parent or sibling?

Newt mentally shook himself. These kinds of thoughts led nowhere except a downward spiral of despair and self-pity. And he needed to focus on making sure the Greenie was adjusting well.

It was difficult to judge how this Greenie was doing though, because he seemed particularly quiet. Even if Minho was an outlier as far as asking loads of questions, Newt thought he remembered asking at least a few questions back when he himself was a Greenie. But this Greenie had hardly asked any.

_Everyone’s different,_ Newt reminded himself. _Different people process and react to things in different ways. Perhaps this Greenie would rather learn through observation._

Later in the evening, the newbie was sitting with Gally and Alby, who Newt was reasonably confident weren’t deliberately trying to make him cry, and Newt was sitting with Minho, as had become their habit.

“How was the rest of your day babysitting the Greenie?” Minho asked.

“Look at you, calling him the Greenie, as if you weren’t in his position a few weeks ago,” Newt teased him.

“Yeah, but that was a few weeks in Maze time, which is like months in regular time,” Minho said. “I’m all grown up now.”

“Sure, of course. So silly of me,” Newt answered. “It was fine. He’s very quiet. Didn’t ask so many annoying questions, like some other Greenies we know and love.”

“Aw thanks, love you too,” Minho said lightly, leaning backward to lounge on his back and stretching his legs out in front of him. Newt was glad Minho couldn’t see his face, because he didn’t think he had been able to completely keep the shock of emotion off of it as his stomach lurched at Minho’s words. “How are you going to keep doing all these Greenies month after month, explaining the same thing over and over?” Minho asked, eyes closed, looking lazy and content. “ _I_ was getting bored today, and that was only the second time I’ve heard it all. Aren’t you going to be bored out of your mind by the zillionth Greenie?”

“What makes you think I’ll be the one doing all the Greenies?” Newt asked.

Minho opened his eyes and turned his head so he could see Newt’s face. “Come on, you know you’re not leaving any of the poor, fragile newbies to the Intimidation Squad over there. I bet they stay up at night, planning ways to haze the all the fresh meat.”

“Alby’s not that bad,” Newt protested. Minho arched an eyebrow. “Well, he’s gotten a lot better since I first got here, anyway,” he amended sheepishly.

“Well, maybe you and Alby can trade off,” Minho suggested. “But if I were you, I’d keep them away from Gally. He’s six foot two and has the eyebrows of Satan, he’ll scare the kids to death.”

Newt burst out laughing, drawing looks from the other three boys a short distance away. Hastily he cut off, clearing his throat instead.

“You could always take a turn with the Greenies, you know,” he said to Minho. “Might do you some good. Learn a little patience and compassion.”

“Why?” Minho asked. “You’re patient and compassionate enough for the both of us.”

Newt turned his head away, but he thought Minho might still have caught a glimpse of the blush already spreading there. “It still wouldn’t hurt for you to take a turn once or twice,” he said, hoping to cover his awkwardness. “You never know, you might eventually want some friends besides me.”

Minho laughed. “How do you know I’m not secretly best friends with Gally and Alby?”

“Well, you just called them the Intimidation Squad,” Newt reasoned. “So what does that tell you?”

“Maybe I also really enjoy intimidating the Greenies,” Minho argued, tilting his head playfully.

“No, you don’t,” Newt said, rolling his eyes. “You’re much too cool to even bother with them at all. Or at least, you think you are.”

“You think I’m cool?” Minho teased, a smug look on his face.

“No, I think _you_ think you’re cool,” Newt argued. “That’s completely different.”

“Ok, fine, you’re right,” Minho admitted.

“Right about you thinking you’re cool, or right about me being your only friend?” Newt was pleased at the deep, genuine laugh he drew from Minho with that.

He laughed with Minho, and as they continued their silly conversation about nothing in particular, Newt felt a warm, contented glow spreading through him. He looked over again at where the Greenie was sitting with Alby and Gally, and he felt a special fondness, a comraderie, for all of them, all the boys who had been trapped there together for unknown purposes and by unknown people. They didn’t always get along as smoothly as he might have wanted, but they were in this together. Perhaps he could be happy here after all.

Perhaps this could become a home for him, after all.


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning at breakfast, the Greenie told them he had remembered his name: Winston.

“How did you remember?” Gally asked. “Was there anything in particular that happened that led to you remembering?”

“Actually, yes,” the Greenie ( _Winston,_ Newt reminded himself) answered. “I, uh, I fell off my hammock last night, and after that I could remember my name.”

“Did you hit your head when you fell?” Gally asked, looking pointedly at Newt. Newt all but rolled his eyes. Gally had been trying to convince everyone of his theory that Greenies receiving a blow to the head helped them remember their name faster, as both he and Minho had remembered their names after being hit in the head. Newt still wasn’t convinced. (Minho had suggested that Gally just wanted an excuse to punch all the Greenies in the face.)

“Yeah, I did,” Winston admitted sheepishly. “How did you know?”

“Believe me now?” Gally said to Newt instead of answering.

“Look, I’m not saying you’re wrong,” Newt said, exasperated. “But two, now three, instances is not enough to form any reliable conclusions.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Winston asked, looking back and forth between the two of them. Newt found himself thinking wistfully of yesterday, when Winston had been too terrified to speak, and then he felt like a terrible person for thinking it.

“I have a theory,” Gally began. “I think a blow to the head helps newbies recover their names from the amnesia faster. But some people,” he shot a significant glare at Newt, “won’t let me do anything about it.”

Now Newt did roll his eyes. “Sorry I won’t let you potentially give newbies brain damage for the sake of an unverified theory.”

Gally advanced on Newt. “You know, you’ve gotten a lot more obnoxious since you started spending so much time with our Runner-in-chief over there. I think he’s been a bad influence on you.”

In spite of himself, Newt felt himself shrinking away from Gally’s intimidating form, but he recovered quickly and opened his mouth to defend himself, only someone else jumped in before he could.

“You just don’t like when he stands up for himself, because it makes it harder for you to bully him,” Minho was saying, striding forward to stand at Newt’s side. Newt hadn’t even seen him stand up, he had simply appeared as though summoned to Newt’s defense. His arm brushed Newt’s as he angled himself toward Gally, not quite standing in front of Newt but his posture clearly projecting a protective stance.

The three of them eyed each other for a few tense seconds, before a loud groan cut through the silence. Alby rubbed his face wearily with both hands. “Guys, it’s too early for this. Can we at least get through breakfast before we start in with the bickering?”

Newt and Minho glanced at each other, and Newt couldn’t resist a small chuckle at the look on Minho’s face. Soon Newt and Minho were laughing together, and even Gally cracked a grin as Minho slapped him on the back, all animosity forgotten.

Later, when Minho was preparing to go out for the day and they could talk more privately just outside the Maze doors, Minho confided in Newt.

“I’d never say it to his face, but he might have a point,” Minho admitted. “I hit my head my first day, and I remembered my name immediately after that. And as far as we know there’s been no lasting brain damage.”

“As far as we know,” Newt muttered darkly. “Jury’s still out on that, and frankly, you’re not making a great case for yourself right now.”

“Just because he’s a dick doesn’t mean he’s not right.”

Newt sighed. “I know. And honestly I think he probably is right. But it seems so dangerous to intentionally give people head injuries, it would be so easy to accidentally overdo it and seriously hurt someone. And for what, a day or two less of wondering what your name is? I’m not sure that’s worth the risk.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think he’d actually intentionally damage any of the Greenies,” Minho said. “He’s mostly talk.”

“You’re probably right,” Newt said.

“Anyway, I better get going,” Minho said. He held his hand out, palm facing sideways, and in answer Newt swung his his hand through, slapping Minho’s.

“See you tonight,” Newt called as Minho took off. Minho waved back at him before disappearing into the Maze, and Newt tried not to feel silly as his heart sank at the thought of how many hours it would be until he ran back out of it again.

In the meantime, he and Winston set about feeding and taking care of the animals.

“Do you ever slaughter the animals for meat?” Winston asked as they were carrying sacks of feed to the chicken coop.

“We have done, a few times,” Newt said. “But none of us really liked to kill them, we got too attached to them. I think the last time we did it was before Minho got here.”

“Well if you all wanted some meat, I think I could do it,” Winston offered.

Newt stopped walking to look at Winston carefully. “Are you sure you would know what you’re doing?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Winston answered. He also stopped walking and looked back at Newt steadily. “How did you or Alby or whoever know what to do before? Was it like, when you were there with the animals and you saw and smelled and heard them, you just sort of knew you could do it, and the knowledge of how to do it and how to do all kinds of things related to animals just came to you like it had been in your head all along, even though you didn’t remember learning how to do it?”

“Yeah, that was it almost exactly,” Newt answered, surprised. “That’s as good a way of describing it as anything else.” Newt turned away from Winston and continued walking. “We should probably check in with the others, but I think they’d probably be happy to have some meat, if you’re sure you don’t mind.”

“Well, I don’t think it’s going to be my favourite thing ever,” Winston said, his mouth twisting in a wry grimace. “But I don’t mind doing it. It’s kind of a natural part of working on a farm, isn’t it?”

“I suppose,” Newt replied, shaking his head and feeling a small shiver run down his spine. “I hated doing it. It made me feel awful.”

Winston shrugged. “It’s just the circle of life, isn’t it? Everything has to die eventually. Might as well get some bacon out of it.”

“Sure,” Newt conceded.

Neither Gally nor Alby objected, so Newt cleared out and let Winston get to work. He spent the rest of the morning working in the Gardens, trying not to think about what was happening over in the corner of the Glade where Winston was currently.

Later that evening, Newt stood with Minho, Gally and Alby as Winston presented them with the cooked meat of one of the pigs. At first they all four simply stood there, casting sidelong glances at each other and looking dubiously at the proffered feast.

“Who was it?” Gally asked Winston glumly.

“It was Tom,” Winston answered. His face was solemn but there was a distinct gleam of amusement in his eyes.

No one said anything for a few more seconds. _Poor Tom,_ Newt thought.

“It actually smells really good,” Minho finally muttered.

“It does,” Alby agreed. They all looked at each other again, agreement in their eyes despite the mildly horrified looks on their faces.

Newt broke the uncomfortable silence. “Alright, give me a slice of Tommy.”

“Sorry, Tom,” Gally murmured as they all lined up to take a portion of meat from the platter.

The meat from Tom the pig tasted just as good as it smelled, which Newt had mixed feelings about, but he found he could get over his misgivings a lot easier when he hadn’t actually seen Tom murdered before his eyes, or worse, had to do it himself. As it turned out, that wasn’t the only thing special about the evening: after they had all eaten their fill, Gally brought out a surprise project that he had apparently been working on in secret for months now.

“What _is_ that?” Minho asked dubiously, examining one of the jars of amber liquid.

“Just drink it,” Gally answered. “You can thank me later.”

“How do we know you’re not trying to poison us?” Newt asked, only partially joking.

“It’s fine, it’s made from fruit mash,” Gally said rolling his eyes. “I wouldn’t poison you.” Newt raised a jar to his lips, and the mysterious liquid had just entered his mouth when he heard Gally mutter, “On purpose.” At that exact second the flavour of the liquid flooded his senses, making him instinctively gag. He nearly choked, as much from the repulsive taste and smell as from what Gally said, coughing and sputtering as he spewed the foul-tasting liquid out of his mouth again.

“What the hell, Gally?” he demanded. “Do you even know what’s in here, or what this shit could do to us? What if you actually did poison someone?”

“It’s just alcohol, it should be fine,” Gally insisted. “But I needed some guinea pigs to help me… calibrate the strength. Don’t be such a baby.”

Minho sniffed tentatively at his own jar and then recoiled. “Whatever’s in here, I’m not drinking it,” he stated baldly. Winston was looking as though he agreed with Minho, and Alby took the tiniest of sips, failing to entirely suppress a grimace, before setting the jar down at arm’s length and flashing Gally a look of guilty apology.

“I think it might be a little too strong, Gally,” Alby said.

Gally visibly deflated. “Ah well, back to the drawing board, I guess,” he sighed.

Alby clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll get it eventually. I have complete faith in you.”

They sat around the remnants of the fire Winston had used to roast Tom, idly chatting and laughing. Newt sat next to Minho, as usual, but he couldn’t help feeling that tonight there was some invisible barrier between them. Or perhaps the barrier was within Newt himself, blocking up the words and making him silent and awkward. Minho seemed perfectly casual, occasionally making some snide comment to Newt or laughing at something Gally or Winston had done, so it probably was Newt who was the problem, the strange one, the _other._ Newt could see Gally and Alby holding hands when they thought no one could see them; well, not quite holding hands, but placing their hands just close enough that it could have been accidental, but Newt knew it wasn’t, their smallest fingers curled around each other, Gally’s first two fingers twitching just a hair as though he wanted to stroke the back of Alby’s hand. He felt a powerful ache in his chest at the sight, the longing of an emptiness desperate to be filled.

As the night went on, Newt found his gaze sneaking over to the abandoned jars more and more often. If it really was just alcohol, albeit ridiculously strong alcohol, surely it couldn’t hurt? It might even be nice to take advantage of a little liquid courage, and anyway he could always dilute it with something.

Excusing himself from the others’ company, he went to surreptitiously grab one of the jars and hide it behind his back while fetching another empty jar and some fruit juice to mix with the vile stuff and make it palatable. Out of sight of the others, he poured Gally’s mystery brew in the empty jar to the height of two fingers, then added enough fruit juice to hopefully disguise the flavor enough for him to choke it down.

He returned to the fire, and to Minho’s side, already feeling lighter and more cheerful. After a few sips of his concoction, he was brimming with new confidence, leaning on Minho and finding everyone’s jokes especially funny.

“What’s with you?” Minho asked him after Newt had drunk half the jar and decided laying his head on Minho’s shoulder was a fantastic idea. “You’re acting weird. Not that I mind, it’s just - unusual. For you.” Newt could feel the vibrations coming from Minho’s chest, and he put a hand up over Minho’s heart, trying to capture the essence of his voice in his fingertips. “See, like that,” Minho continued,” and Newt thought he could feel the tiny fluctuations in his voice as he spoke, or maybe that was just the brew talking. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m feeling your voice,” Newt answered, as though it should have been obvious.

“What the fuck does that mean?” Minho asked, laughing, and Newt only barely stopped himself from sliding his hand up the short distance to the skin over Minho’s vocal cords, to feel the movement and vibration from there as well.

No, even in his current state of disinhibition, Newt knew that touching Minho’s neck would probably be going a tad too far.

In answer to Minho’s question, Newt just shrugged and sat up again, but he was still sat close enough to Minho that their arms brushed together, and if he leaned his legs just a fraction to the side, he could make a point of contact from their hips all the way down to their knees.

“I didn’t mean you had to stop,” Minho said, his voice careful. “I didn’t mind it.”

Newt smiled and dug his elbow into Minho’s side, earning a small yelp and an answering shove. After recovering his balance, which took only a few seconds longer than it would normally have done, he reached for his jar and took another long gulp.

“What’s in there, anyway?” Minho asked, a note of suspicion colouring his tone.

“Fruit juice,” Newt replied innocently.

Minho grabbed the jar from Newt’s hands and took a whiff of the contents. “Fuck, Newt, you’re not actually drinking that shit, are you?”

“I watered it down,” Newt protested, trying to take the jar back from Minho, but he held it just out of Newt’s reach.

Batting Newt’s grasping hands away, Minho put the jar up to his lips and took a small sip. “Eugh,” he groaned, shuddering and making a disgusted face. “I don’t know how you can drink that, even mixed with the juice it’s vile.”

“It’s not so bad,” Newt said. Minho grinned, and Newt felt relief wash over him.

“If you say so, dude,” he answered, shaking his head but still smiling. He handed the jar back to Newt and after taking another long gulp, nearly finishing the jar, Newt leaned his head on Minho’s shoulder once more. To his surprise, but not displeasure, Minho brought his arm up around Newt’s shoulders and left it there, holding Newt against himself. Newt’s head was spinning, and he wasn’t sure if it was because of the brew or because somehow he had gotten exactly what he wanted, only it was better than his wildest expectations, and he thought he might explode from happiness and joy and camaraderie and the feeling of Minho’s thumb rubbing tiny circles in his upper arm.

The spinning got worse and worse, until much later that night, Newt rolled out of his hammock and landed heavily on the ground. The trees and grass swirled around him, earth and sky switching momentarily before resuming their rightful places. There was something sharp in his throat, and in his mouth the taste of acid and bile. His insides clenched painfully, and then his entire body convulsed with a violence that squeezed tears from his eyes as he lost the contents of his stomach. He heaved and retched again and again, until nothing came up but bile, tears and snot streaming down his face and mingling with the saliva dripping down his chin.

“Newt?” The whisper came from somewhere to his left and slightly above him. “Are you okay?”

Newt couldn’t answer. He was on his hands and knees, shaking; slowly, he pushed himself back until he was sitting on his heels, hands on his knees. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He felt awful; his head pounded, his surroundings were still spinning, the nausea that had abated slightly after vomiting was slowly creeping back, and worst of all, everything looked blurry, like his eyes wouldn’t focus on anything. He started to panic; what if this was permanent? Would he ever be able to see normally again?

A hand touched his shoulder. “Newt,” the same voice whispered. It was Minho. Newt could tell even in the darkness, even with Minho’s features reduced to a vague smudge of colours, even with his obscured face swimming before Newt’s eyes.

 _I’m fine,_ Newt tried to whisper back, but the words lodged in his throat and wouldn’t come out. He tried again. “I’m - ” That was as far as he got. He realised he was shaking even worse than before. He suddenly felt unbearably cold, all the way to his core.

He felt Minho’s arms wrapping around his shoulders, pulling him into his chest. He could feel the cloth of Minho’s shirt, soft against his cheek, and his ear was pressed directly over Minho’s heart. He listened to it beating, focusing on the steady rhythm, the soft whooshing of blood through vessels and chambers. His arms went reflexively around Minho’s waist, anchoring himself, fingers curling tightly into the shirt fabric on Minho’s back.

One of Minho’s hands went up to stroke Newt’s hair. Newt noticed in an odd, detached way that he was crying, and he felt guilty because he was probably getting tears and snot and who knew what else all over Minho’s shirt. He tried to apologise, but all that came out were broken syllables in between sobs.

“Hey, you’re okay. You’re okay,” Minho said quietly, still stroking Newt’s hair. It was strange to hear his voice resonating through his chest, and it somehow felt different than it had when he'd done the same thing earlier that night, but Newt couldn’t say that he didn’t like it. His arms wrapped a little tighter around Minho, and he pressed his face into Minho’s chest, rubbing his cheek against the fabric as he moved his head.

They stayed that way for what felt like several minutes, Newt curled into Minho’s chest, Minho’s arms wrapped around him, until Newt’s legs started to ache from being folded underneath him for so long. He moved to get up, but when he tried to put weight on his numb legs they buckled underneath him, and Minho scrambled to stand up first and help him up.

Stumbling to his feet, leaning on Minho, Newt tried to stretch his legs and shake the pins and needles out, but everything lurched nauseatingly and he fell back to his knees and bent over, dry heaving as he had already emptied his stomach earlier. Minho knelt beside him, rubbing small circles into his back and whispering soothingly. When he was ready to sit up, Minho once again got up first and helped pull Newt slowly to his feet. This time, Minho held him steady, one arm clamped around Newt’s waist, the other keeping Newt’s arm firmly around his shoulders.

“Let’s get you a drink of water,” he murmured to Newt, half-carrying him over to the water spigot and filling a glass for him. “Here, drink this,” he commanded. Newt sipped obediently. The water helped, but he still felt wretched. He pressed a hand to his forehead, and his fingers felt marvelously cool against his own skin.

After another several minutes sitting and drinking water, Newt felt well enough to be supported by Minho back to the sleeping area, but the hammock seemed beyond his abilities at the moment. “I don’t think I can get back into my hammock,” he told Minho, so Minho fetched a blanket and made a makeshift bed there on the ground, far from the puddle of vomit still sitting under Newt’s hammock.

“Do you want me to stay with you?” Minho asked, and Newt almost said no, but the thought of being alone at that moment made him feel small and cold, so he nodded, and Minho lay down next to him, pulling the blanket up to his chin. Minho turned to his side, and Newt didn’t mean for it to happen, but he fit so perfectly into the curved space left by Minho’s body, and Minho was so warm, and Newt was still shivering, so it felt perfectly natural when Minho draped one arm over Newt’s side and slid the other hand under Newt’s neck to support his head. He could feel the tingle of Minho’s breath across the back of his neck every few seconds, and he found himself subconsciously matching Minho’s rhythm, the slow inhales and exhales lulling him to sleep.

When he woke up the next morning, the soft light of dawn and gentle sounds of nature slowly pulling him back to consciousness, the first thing he noticed was that his vision had returned to normal and his surroundings had stopped spinning. The second thing he noticed was that he was alone; Minho had gone.

He made his slow, careful way to the Homestead, where the others were already eating. At the smell of the food, Newt’s stomach burbled uncomfortably. It still felt raw from the night before, and he shied away from eating anything. He sat down, too embarrassed to meet anyone’s eye or even say anything. Especially to Minho. _Oh my god, what the fuck did I do?_ Everything from the night before, including everything he had done under the influence of the mystery brew, came flooding back to him, and he wanted to crawl under the table and die. Judging by his pounding head and roiling intestines, that might still be an option.

“There he is,” Gally crowed. “The brave test subject! How are you feeling?”

“What?” Newt said, looking up sharply and then wincing as his head throbbed. For a moment he had thought he sensed a spark of recognition at Gally’s words, but then it disappeared, just as quickly as it had come.

“The brew!” Gally said. Newt wished he wouldn’t talk quite so loudly. “How was it?”

“You told them?” Newt shot reproachfully at Minho, who was grinning unsympathetically.

“Can you blame me?” Minho shrugged. “It was too funny not to share. You’re such a lightweight.”

“He didn’t really tell us much,” Alby said. “Just that you ended up trying the brew after all, and that it worked as intended but then you got sick later.”

“Let’s just say Gally had better spend a whole lot of time ‘calibrating’ before I’ll try it again,” Newt said wearily. Strangely, the teasing was helping him feel less embarrassed. In the light of day, the whole thing did seem a lot funnier than it had at the time, and Minho didn’t seem to have revealed the most humiliating bits. Newt looked up across the table at Minho, whose smile softened as he met Newt’s eye, and Newt even managed a weak smile back.

Gally frowned. “How much did you have?”

“Not that much,” Newt answered. “About like that.” He held up his fingers, showing the approximate depth of the liquid he had poured in the jar.

“It shouldn’t have made you that sick,” Gally admitted, and Newt was happy to see he at least had the good grace to look chagrined. “Maybe there was something wrong with the distillation process? Hmm…” he trailed off, thinking.

“Just don’t ask me to test the next batch,” Newt said, face twisting wryly. He looked over at Minho again, and as they met eyes once more, Newt could have sworn he saw a spark there, part humour, but also part something else that Newt couldn’t name.

Maybe one day, he would find out what it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the Pig Tom scene is an homage to a very similar scene in the t.v. show Parks and Recreation, because I'm GARBAGE and I couldn't help myself lmao. If you've seen the show you probably know exactly which scene I'm talking about, but it's from the episode where Ron is supposed to throw the department a barbecue but he gets mad because they don't truly appreciate grilled meat XD in the original draft it was basically word-for-word, but I ended up making a few tweaks so it would fit better. But anyway, that's where that came from.


	6. Chapter 6

“I don’t understand how he’s just sleeping through it,” Minho whispered incredulously, looking at Winston’s slumbering form in the darkness. Newt thought he sounded a touch envious.

“Well, it’s not _that_ loud,” Newt reasoned. “It’s just, once you’ve noticed it, it’s very difficult to... un-notice it.”

“Not that loud, my ass,” Minho said, his voice rising almost above a whisper. Newt shushed him, and he continued more quietly. “It’s like they’re not even trying to be discreet.”

“I’m sure they are trying,” Newt whispered back, trying to give Gally and Alby the benefit of the doubt. “They probably just don’t realise how much the, er, the noises, carry.”

“I can’t take much more of this,” Minho muttered. They both winced as someone, Newt suspected it was Gally by the pitch, gave a particularly loud moan.

“Why don’t we go for a walk?” Newt suggested. “We could go walk in the woods, or visit the goats in the barn, or… literally anywhere but here.”

“I’ll second that motion,” Minho said, sounding relieved as he stood up swiftly. Newt followed him, and they walked away from the sleeping area and the disturbing sounds, settling into a leisurely, meandering pace as soon as they were out of earshot.

They weren’t headed anywhere in particular, but they ended up by the smouldering remnants of the cookfire, only the embers giving off a soft orange glow, nearly buried in ashes. They sat down with their backs to the firepit, leaning against a log.

Newt leaned his head back. “Wow,” he breathed. “The stars look incredible tonight.”

Minho craned his head back as well. “It’s such a clear night, I haven’t seen this many stars in… well, I don’t know how long.”

Newt scooted forward, away from the log, so he would have room to lay flat on his back, and Minho followed suit. “No matter how many times I see them, I never get tired of looking at the stars,” Newt remarked.

“Me either,” Minho said, his voice hushed.

“Do you know any constellations?” Newt asked.

“Yeah, I know a few,” Minho answered.

“Really?” Newt said hopefully. “I remember what a few of them are but I don’t know how to find them. Could you show me?”

“Here, put your head right next to mine so you can see where I’m pointing,” Minho said, already shifting closer to Newt.

“Okay,” Newt replied, lifting himself up on his elbows and carefully shifting his body until his head was so close to Minho’s he could feel Minho’s hair brushing against the side of his head.

Minho raised his arm up, pointing to a grouping of stars. “First you find the Big Dipper, because it’s one of the easiest to spot, most people can recognise it, and the stars are pretty bright so it stands out. It’s also called Ursa Major, which means - ”

“Great Bear,” Newt finished for him, smiling.

“Exactly,” Minho said. “The actual Ursa Major constellation has more to it, the Big Dipper is really only the back half of the body and the tail, but it doesn’t matter because that’s the important part. See, if you connect the two stars on the outside edge of the bowl part of the dipper, and follow the line it makes...” Newt followed Minho’s pointing finger on its short journey across the sky. “You reach the North Star, Polaris, which is also the tip of the handle of the Little Dipper, see?” He traced the outline of the constellation, essentially a smaller version of the first one he had pointed out. “As long as you can find Polaris, you know which way is north, so you’ll never be lost.”

“What if it’s a cloudy night?” Newt asked.

“I don’t know, then you’re fucked, I guess,” Minho answered, his hand dropping back to his side. “There’s probably a lot of other nighttime navigation techniques, I just don’t know any of them.”

“Well, you still know a lot more than me,” Newt told him. “What other constellations do you know?”

Minho’s arm returned to the space above their heads, finger pointing carefully. “See in between the Big and Little Dipper, this string of stars that sort of curves around Polaris? That’s Draco, the dragon. I think there’s a myth about a dragon that guarded a magic garden or something, I don’t really remember. And I know Heracles, who killed the dragon, is up there somewhere, but I don’t remember where.” He laughed sheepishly.

“Isn’t the Little Dipper also called Ursa Minor? Little Bear?” Newt asked.

“Yes, it is,” Minho answered. “I think the story goes that there was a lady who got turned into a bear for some reason, and then her son got turned into one too? It was probably Zeus’s fault, most things were in those stories.” Newt gave a surprised chuckle. “I wish I remembered more,” Minho continued, sounding frustrated.

“No, this is really cool. I’m learning so much, keep going,” Newt urged him.

“Okay,” Minho agreed, and Newt thought he could hear a note of amusement in the other boy’s voice. “If you look sort of across Polaris from the Big Dipper, you’ll see Cassiopeia, which I remember because it makes a big ‘W’. The story with that one goes that Cassiopeia was a queen who bragged about herself and her daughters being more beautiful than the sea nymphs, so as punishment one of her daughters, Andromeda, was supposed to be sacrificed to a sea monster, but then Perseus saved her.”

“That story sounds kind of familiar, I think I’ve heard that one before,” Newt murmured.

“Yeah?” Minho asked, turning his head toward Newt. Newt tilted his head toward Minho too, and their faces were so close he could feel the light breeze of Minho’s exhale playing across his face.

“At least, the names Andromeda and Perseus sound familiar,” Newt said, his voice quiet. They were so close, he knew he could speak as soft as a whisper and still be heard perfectly clearly. The low murmur of his voice made their nearness feel even more intimate. There was enough ambient light, and his eyes were enough adjusted to the darkness, for Newt to be able to make out Minho’s face right next to him, and he could see Minho’s eyes looking back at him steadily. Something about the darkness, and the way they were lying on their backs side by side, made Newt feel less nervous than he knew he normally would have with his face being this close to Minho’s, and he was able to hold the other boy’s gaze without wavering.

They were both silent for several seconds. Then Minho turned to look back up at the night sky, and Newt did as well a moment later. “Want me to show you my favourite constellation?” Minho asked, his tone casual. Belatedly, Newt felt his heart begin to beat harder.

“Sure,” he answered, trying to mimic Minho’s nonchalance, despite the fact that he was clearly having a flare-up of his newly discovered heart condition. He steadfastly ignored the fact that he only ever seemed to have these flare-ups when he was around Minho.

“See there, pretty low above the wall, those three bright stars in a row? That’s Orion’s belt. And Orion sort of makes a ‘K’ shape around it.” Newt once again followed Minho’s pointing finger tracing out the shape. “There’s more up at the top, he’s holding a sword in one hand and a shield in the other, see? But the main body is there. And see there, hanging under his belt?” Minho pointed to a small grouping of stars that were slightly fuzzier-looking than the three that made up the belt, but still nearly as bright. “That’s Orion’s penis.”

“What?” Newt choked on his laugh. “You’re messing with me. That can’t really be what it’s called, you’re making that up.”

“No, I’m totally serious,” Minho said, but the slight laugh in his voice betrayed him. “Ask any serious astronomer and they’ll tell you, that’s Orion’s penis.”

“Surely it’s a sword, or…” Newt trailed off, trying to think of other alternatives.

“No, he’s already holding his sword in his hand, remember?” Minho said. He was clearly taking far too much enjoyment in this. “Unless you meant sword in the metaphorical sense, as a euphemism for penis, in which case it is absolutely his ‘sword’.”

“A scabbard, then,” Newt said, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. “Or maybe he has two swords.”

“He does have two swords,” Minho answered cheekily. “One in his hand, and one between his legs.”

“Okay, fine, I get it,” Newt laughed. “It’s his penis.”

“If you don’t trust me, ask any serious astronomer,” Minho said again, laughing along.

“Yeah, sure,” Newt said sarcastically. “And where exactly am I going to find a serious astronomer in here? Do you think maybe Winston is an expert and can corroborate your story?”

“I guess you’ll just have to take my word for it,” Minho replied slyly.

“Oh, of course. And there’s absolutely no reason I shouldn’t trust you, is there?”

“None at all. I am the picture of veracity.”

“What the hell? And now you’re whipping out the fancy vocabulary as well?” Newt dissolved into giggles, turning onto his side and leaning into Minho as he laughed so hard his stomach hurt.

“Well, you said ‘corroborate’,” Minho choked out between fits of his own laughter. “I was just following your example.”

Newt leaned his forehead into Minho’s shoulder, still laughing, and clutched reflexively at the material of Minho’s shirt on his arm. Eventually their laughter faded, but Newt left his body turned toward Minho, his face pressed into the other boy’s shoulder, his hands grasping Minho’s upper arm, for perhaps a few moments longer than necessary.

Finally Minho spoke again. “Orion’s story is kind of sad,” he said, his voice soft and more serious than before. “He was an incredible hunter, and the lover of the goddess Artemis, but her brother Apollo didn’t like him, so one day when Orion was swimming in the ocean, Apollo tricked Artemis. He bet her that she couldn’t shoot this faraway moving object, and she took the bet and hit it with an arrow, but she only found out afterward that it had been Orion. She killed her own lover.”

“That is really sad,” Newt answered quietly. “Imagine accidentally killing the person you care about most in the world. That would be devastating.”

“I wonder if it would be worse to kill them on accident, or on purpose,” Minho said. He spoke slowly, as though weighing each word.

“Why would you kill the person you most cared about on purpose?” Newt asked, horrified.

“I don’t know. If you had to,” he answered, and Newt felt Minho’s shoulders move in a small shrug. “Maybe they were going to die anyway, and you wanted to stop them from suffering.”

“That’s true,” Newt admitted. “But either way it would be awful.” He looked back up at the sky, thinking. “I suppose it depends on the circumstances, which one’s worse.”

“You’re right, either way it would be awful,” Minho agreed. “I don’t think I could do it, not on purpose.”

“Hopefully you’ll never be in a position to find out.”

“Hey Newt?”

“Yeah?”

“You know you’re the person I care most about, right? It’s you. And I would never want to do anything to hurt you.”

Newt was silent for a moment. He considered Minho’s earlier comment, considered the concept of death as an alternative to suffering. He turned back to Minho. “What if hurting me was the only way to help me?”

Minho’s eyes looked sad. “Don’t say that.” His voice came out a whisper.

Newt suddenly felt a lump rising in his throat, and he swallowed, hoping to clear it. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make everything so serious,” he said, trying to force some cheerfulness into his voice.

Minho shook his head. “It’s okay, I kind of started it.”

Newt made himself look Minho in the eye. “Thank you for saying that, though. And, you know, you’re the person I care most about too.”

Minho looked back at him for a long time, not saying anything. Finally he offered a tiny nod, and in response Newt gave an equally tiny smile that didn’t convey any happiness.

“Do you think Gally and Alby are done now?” Minho said, after a beat of silence.

“I hope so,” Newt answered. “Shall we go find out?”

They stood up and slowly walked back to the sleeping area, which was now blessedly quiet, and returned to their respective hammocks.

“Goodnight, Newt,” Minho said, his whisper carrying across the short distance.

“Night, Minho,” he answered. He felt as though he should do more, like embrace Minho, or at least reach out and offer a squeeze of his hand or a quick pat on the shoulder, but he was too far away to reach easily, and as Newt stood there hesitating, the moment passed. Minho rolled into his hammock, and Newt rolled into his own.

After shifting into a comfortable position, Newt lay back, looking up through the branches of the trees. He couldn’t see nearly as many stars as he could out in the open, but he could still see some. He tried to repeat to himself all the constellations Minho had shown him, commit them to memory so he could find them again on his own.

As he drifted off, lulled by the gentle rocking of his hammock and the whispering of the breeze through the leaves of the trees, still repeating constellations in his head, he allowed himself to think about how close his face had been to Minho’s, and the way his eyes looked in the darkness, and the fact that Minho had said he was the person he cared most about in the world. Granted, it wasn’t much of a competition, as Minho only knew three other people, but still Newt cherished the memory, holding it close inside his chest, savouring it.

Hoping.


	7. Chapter 7

“You four, make sure you hoist the pallet high enough that we can reach it easily, we don’t want anyone falling off,” Gally shouted. In response, Newt, Henry, Jeff and Frypan pulled on the rope they were holding, which ran through a pulley system up through the tall scaffolding that Gally had carefully constructed around the enormous dead tree which served as the centre of the lookout platform, then back down again, lifting a pallet piled high with wooden beams into the air.

“Remind me again why we need a lookout platform?” Jeff muttered under his breath. “And why does it need multiple levels? What exactly are we looking out for?”

“I wouldn’t let Gally hear you say that, if I were you,” Newt told him in a low voice.

“Yeah,” Frypan chimed in. “If he does, he might decide not to put the second and third levels up, and I was looking forward to playing pirate ship on this thing.”

“Nice,” Henry laughed, offering Frypan a high five. When Frypan let go with one hand to slap the hand Henry was holding up, the rope lurched, dragging the four boys forward and causing the pallet to drop a few inches.

“Watch it!” Gally yelled furiously, and the four boys on the rope pulled again, chastened.

Eventually they hoisted it high enough for Gally, Adam and Winston to reach out from the first level of the lookout platform, and pull the pallet full of beams over to be directly above the platform they were standing on.

“Alright, let it down now, but go slow,” Gally announced. “If you shanks drop the rope and crush one of us or damage the platform, I’m gonna be royally pissed off.”

Newt, Henry, Jeff and Frypan slowly lowered the pallet, keeping a slow, steady pace until the pallet touched down on the platform and the rope went slack.

“Yes! We did it!” Henry crowed. He turned to Newt. “Are we done here now? Should we get back to planting the corn?”

Henry had been the next Greenie to arrive after Winston, and had joined Newt working in the vegetable gardens, which was lucky because they had realised with their growing population, they would soon need to expand the gardens and increase food production. They had been in the middle of tilling and planting a whole new corn section when Gally had recruited them for this building project, which required more hands than just himself and Adam.

Adam had been the Greenie after Henry, and he had found his place with Gally and Alby, gravitating towards building projects. They had been kept busy the past couple of months by setting up small dormitory-like huts that could be shared by two or three boys, as an alternative to always sleeping outside (many of them had also given up the hammocks in favour of mattresses stuffed with chicken feathers, which were awarded on a seniority basis because it took so long to gather enough feathers that there weren’t enough for all of them). It was certainly true that any kind of privacy was getting harder and harder to come by, now that there were nine inhabitants of the Glade, and they could assume it would only get more crowded as time went on, so the huts were a welcome respite from constant company with the entire group.

Next up had been Jeff, who showed an aptitude for medical services and worked with Newt and Henry in the gardens when there were no injuries to bandage up, followed by Frypan, who had become their resident cook. Frypan had earned his nickname his very first day, using his namesake to make them all pancakes as a special treat. By the time he remembered his real name two days later, the nickname had already stuck, and he said he preferred it anyway. Together Jeff and Frypan had also added a herb section to the vegetable garden, growing herbs for both medicinal and seasoning purposes.

Newt’s favourite part about adding each newbie to their strange, unconventional little family was seeing each boy find his own place, his niche, the role where he felt most comfortable and had the most to contribute. It felt like snapping a puzzle piece into place, seeing how the edges fit together perfectly, each one adding to the overall picture. He was still the one who usually dealt with the Greenies the most, especially on their first day arriving in the Glade, and he enjoyed helping them find whatever it was they had a natural tendency for, encouraging them to explore their interests and find different ways to contribute.

“It’s good to know you all can at least do the most basic tasks without fucking it up,” Gally said, his sarcastic tone mocking their enthusiasm.

“Is it just me or is he in an even worse mood than usual?” Newt muttered to the others after Gally had turned his back and begun to come down from the platform.

“No, I think he’s been meaner than usual, too,” Henry answered. “Did something happen?”

“You guys know he moved out of his and Alby’s hut, right?” Jeff told them in a hushed voice. “And Adam told me they’ve barely spoken in the past few days, and even when they have to talk to each other, Gally won’t even look at Alby.”

“Gally moved out? Really?” Newt asked, shocked. He had grown so used to Gally and Alby as a pair; even though they never really acknowledged it or made a big deal out of it, they had always been a team, united, for as long as Newt could remember. He didn’t like to think that something so interwoven into the background of their lives could be over, just like that.

“It’s true,” Frypan confirmed, the corners of his mouth turning down sadly. “He’s been sleeping in a hammock over in the trees with me. I didn’t realise it was a _thing,_ I thought that was just how it was here, like y’all rotate the sleeping arrangements every few days to take turns sleeping outside until the new hut is built or something.”

“What are you all standing around whispering for?” Gally’s voice cut through the clearing, and Newt jumped guiltily. He wasn’t the only one; he saw Henry and Frypan flinch as well, although Jeff managed to keep his cool. None of them had noticed Gally reach the bottom of the tree and approach them. “Don’t you have jobs to be getting back to?”

Sheepishly, Newt turned and led Jeff and Henry back to the gardens while Frypan headed back to what he called his kitchen, but which was really only a set of rickety tables piled high with cooking tools and utensils, standing near the cookfire.

He tried not to think too much about Gally and Alby. Really it was none of his business. But he couldn’t help wondering how Alby was taking the separation. Clearly Gally wasn’t handling it well; did that mean it had been Alby’s decision? Alby certainly didn’t seem to be visibly upset, but maybe he was just better at hiding it than Gally.

It seemed he wasn’t the only one thinking about Gally and Alby’s relationship, or lack thereof. “So if Gally moved out, does that mean they broke up?” Henry asked, after looking furtively over his shoulder to make sure Gally was well out of earshot. “Do you think Alby kicked him out?”

“All I know is, they’re not sleeping in the same hut anymore,” Jeff said, shaking his head. “But it would explain why Gally’s been so irritable the past few days.”

“What do you think happened?” Henry asked, leaning on his shovel and looking back and forth between Newt and Jeff. “I mean, it’s not like they were ever all over each other, but it seemed like they were solid. What changed?”

“I don’t know,” Newt answered, frowning. “And it’s not any of our business, so don’t go asking either of them about it, alright? If one of them wants to talk about it and volunteers the information, then that’s different, but we shouldn’t be prying if they’d rather keep it to themselves.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Henry muttered resentfully. “I was just wondering. It seems so sudden.”

“Just because they didn’t go around talking about their relationship problems and asking for advice all the time doesn’t mean the problems weren’t there,” Jeff reasoned. “They’ve always kind of kept all that stuff to themselves, for as long as I’ve been here anyway. But to be honest, I was kind of expecting something like this eventually.”

“Really?” Henry asked, looking at Jeff with unmasked curiosity. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Jeff shrugged, looking down and continuing to dig small furrows in the soil. “I was just getting a vibe, I guess. Maybe it was their body language.”

“What kind of a vibe?” Henry asked.

“I don’t know,” Jeff said again, still not looking up. “Just… like it was coming to an end. Like they both knew it, but neither of them wanted to admit it yet.”

Despite himself, Newt couldn’t help but be drawn into the conversation. “So do you think it was a mutual decision? Or do you think one of them ended it?”

“No way of knowing,” Jeff responded.

After a few minutes of silence, Newt casually steered the conversation towards a more neutral topic: Frypan’s request for them to start cultivating some of the wild onions that grew naturally in the Glade, and grow a version of them in the gardens. They discussed how to be sure they were picking wild onions, and not rain lilies, which looked nearly identical but were poisonous, as well as where to plant them and how to ensure the aggressive plants wouldn’t take over the entire garden. They even tossed around ideas for experimenting with breeding the plant to select for certain traits, such as making the onions bigger or sweeter.

The rest of the day passed, and after he had greeted Minho returning from the Maze, Newt was heading around the back of the Homestead to return the gardening tools to their storage place, when he stumbled across something he was sure he was never meant to see.

He didn’t immediately process what was happening; it was almost as though his brain saw the individual pieces but couldn’t connect them into one cohesive scene. He saw Frypan standing there, a helpless look on his face and a plate of what looked to be fried chicken and mashed potatoes in his hand. He saw Gally, sat with his back against the wall, leaning forward. A jar of familiar-looking amber liquid was on the ground next to him, and his hands were covering his face.

And he was crying. Gally was crying, full-on sobbing into his hands, shoulders shaking and head bowed in misery. It was so incongruous with the image of Gally Newt had in his head, that he froze for a moment, unable to comprehend what he was seeing.

“I’m so sorry,” Frypan was saying softly, and as Newt watched he took a step closer to Gally and patted him on the shoulder with his free hand. “Just let it out, you’ll feel better, I promise.”

In response, Gally only sobbed harder. Newt had never heard sounds that despondent from anyone, let alone Gally. It was unsettling to say the least.

Newt saw Frypan’s eyes flick over to him, but Frypan didn’t say anything except to continue offering quiet, comforting words to Gally. Newt still felt frozen and awkward. He knew he should leave, that Gally most likely wanted to have as few people as possible witness him like this, but he still couldn’t make himself move. He felt rooted to the spot, numb and petrified.

Eventually Gally looked up and noticed Newt standing there. “Oh, god,” he groaned. “Of course. This is just what I need.”

His words seemed to jolt Newt out of his frozen state. “Gally, what’s wrong? Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Not unless you can convince Alby to un-break up with me,” Gally answered, sounding exhausted. He lowered his head back into his hands and let out a long, weary exhale.

“Gally, I’m so sorry,” Newt said. He and Gally had never been the best of friends, but he still hated to see him like this. He had never seen Gally looking and acting so… defeated.

Gally didn’t answer, and he still wouldn’t look at either of them. Newt took a few hesitant steps forward, then made up his mind and sank down to sit beside Gally. Gally hadn’t specifically asked him to leave, and Newt thought he knew Gally well enough by now to know that Gally wouldn’t be shy telling him to fuck off if that was what he really wanted.

He gave Gally an awkward pat on the shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “That really sucks. Do you think there’s a chance it’ll just blow over? Did you guys have a fight or something?”

“No, we were doing fine! Or at least, I thought we were,” Gally said, still looking down at his lap. He shook his head and pushed the heels of his hands into his temples. “That’s what I just can’t get over, I thought we were ok! I mean, it would be one thing if we were fighting all the time, or we weren’t communicating at all, or…” he trailed off, screwing his face up in pain as he fought against a fresh wave of sobs. “I just don’t get it,” he said, his voice thin and weak.

“Do you want me to talk to him about it? I could ask him - ”

“No! No,” Gally interrupted quickly. “I don’t want him to know - I don’t want him to know how upset I am,” he admitted. “Besides, I don’t think it would help. He seemed like he had his mind pretty much made up.” Gally’s voice was laced with bitterness.

“Okay,” Newt nodded sadly.

“You know what the worst part is?” Gally burst out suddenly. “We spent so much time imagining together what this place could be, and we put so much time and effort into trying to build a home here, for all the boys we knew would be coming up in the box, but… I also thought it would be for us.” He sighed, looking down again. “And now we don’t even get to be together to enjoy what we built.” He glanced sideways at Newt, then looked down again. “You know, sometimes I miss how it was when it was just the four of us, me and Alby, you and Minho. That was right around the time things started to really get better, and it finally felt like it might be possible for us to build something that would last.” He covered his face with his hands, looking embarrassed. “I actually thought for a while that maybe they sent us up in pairs, like we were supposed to be together. I know it sounds dumb, but,” he sighed again and dropped his hands. “I just thought… that no matter what, we would always have each other.”

“You still have us,” Newt said quietly. “I know it’s not the same, but… we’re here for you, Gally.”

Gally looked up and met his eye. “Thanks. That does help, a little.” He laughed bitterly. “I think I’m still gonna be a wreck for a while, but I do feel, I don’t know, less alone, I guess.”

“Here, eat this,” Frypan cut in, shoving the plate of food he was still holding at Gally. “Comfort food. I made it for you, special.” He offered Gally a small, sympathetic smile.

“Thanks, Fry,” Gally said. His mouth twitched in an intimation of an answering smile, and he accepted the plate of food. He picked up a piece of fried chicken and used it to scoop up some of the mashed potatoes, then took a gigantic bite, chewed and swallowed. “It tastes so good,” he said, looking up at Frypan almost in surprise.

“Of course it does,” Frypan answered cheekily. “I made it!”

Gally didn’t quite laugh, but Newt thought the exhale he gave at that response sounded like the beginning of one.

Frypan lowered himself down to sit on Gally’s other side. “Listen, I know it sucks right now, and it’s probably gonna be shitty for a while. But you can get through this.”

“Yeah, absolutely,” Newt agreed. “And if there’s anything we can do to help, just let us know.”

Gally turned to face him, and Newt would have sworn there was something like a wicked gleam in his eye. “Actually, there is something,” he said.

“Okay,” Newt said slowly, wondering if he was about to immediately regret his offer. “What is it?”

“Remember this?” Gally asked, reaching for the jar of amber liquid at his feet and holding it up for Newt’s inspection.

“Oh, no,” Newt groaned. “Does it have to be that? Isn’t there anything else I could do?”

“What is that?” Frypan asked curiously.

“Just hope you don’t find out,” Newt told him.

“C’mon, it’s not that bad anymore,” Gally said. “I’ve been working on it a lot, and I’ve tested it myself, and I didn’t get sick at all. Well, nothing beyond a normal hangover,” he amended. “I just need to make sure it doesn’t cause a different reaction for different people or something. It should be completely safe.”

Newt took the jar from Gally, sniffing it doubtfully. “Are you sure? It won’t make me sick like last time?”

“Last time?” Frypan asked, sounding worried. “What happened last time?”

“No, no,” Gally assured them. “I think I figured out what it was, last time I made a mistake and…”

“What?” Newt asked sharply.

“Well, let’s just say you may or may not have had mild methanol poisoning.”

 _“What?”_ Newt sputtered.

“But I’ve worked it out this time, all the methanol has been removed!” Gally continued hastily as Newt shot him the evil eye.

Newt glanced down at the jar, his expression full of distaste. “I can’t believe I’m actually considering drinking this again after you literally poisoned me last time.”

“Please, Newt?” Gally said, batting his eyelashes, striking an odd balance between sincere and mocking. “It would really cheer me up.”

Newt rolled his eyes. “Oh, alright, then,” he relented. Carefully, he took a tiny sip. “It tastes about as bad as I remember,” he said, wincing and trying not to gag.

“Really? I thought this batch tasted just a hair better,” Gally replied thoughtfully. “I think it’s a shade less strong, too.”

“I can’t tell the difference,” Newt said, taking another swig. The brew hit the back of his throat and burned all the way down, down into his chest, where it lit a fire. The burning sensation in his throat was unpleasant, but Newt had to admit he quite liked the feeling it ignited in his chest; it made him feel… invincible. Free. Uninhibited.

“Alright, pass that over here,” Frypan demanded, and Newt handed him the jar, his arm moving over Gally. Frypan took a long pull, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.

“Woah, Fry, take it easy,” Gally cautioned, putting his hand on Frypan’s arm to make him lower the jar. “It’s still pretty strong.” Frypan lowered the jar, wiped his mouth, belched and then laughed uproariously at the looks Newt and Gally were giving him.

“It’s not even that bad, y’all are just weak,” Frypan declared, looking smug.

Somewhere between half an hour and an hour later (Newt couldn’t be sure because time had started to feel liquid and mutable, one moment flowing into the next with no concrete indication of its passage), Newt joined the others by the fire.

It took Minho approximately two seconds to zero in on the jar Newt was holding in his hand, which was still one-quarter full of amber liquid. “Newt,” he said, his voice edged with warning, “tell me that’s not what I think it is.”

Newt immediately went into defensive mode. “Relax,” he said, drawing out the word into a long drawl. “Gally’s been working on it. He’s perfected the recipe. I won’t get sick this time, he promised.”

“And you just… believed him?” Minho asked incredulously.

“Listen,” Newt said slowly. He was proud of himself for being so patient. “Gally is my Very Good Friend. I’m just doing him a little favour. And you know he’s had a rough time lately, what with him and Alby being - ” Newt drew his hand in a quick motion across his throat and made a guttural sound in the back of his throat.

Minho kept his face stern and disapproving, but Newt was sure he could detect a hint of amusement in his eyes. “I didn’t know that, actually. That’s too bad.”

Newt nodded solemnly. “Yes. It’s a travedy. I mean, a tragesty. I mean, a tragedy _and_ a travesty. Sorry, I kept starting to say one then switching to the other halfway through. Those two words are very similar.” Now he was sure Minho was barely suppressing a laugh. “Anyway, you can see why I want to do something to help him get his mind off it. Gally is my Very Good Friend, I don’t want him to be sad and alone and drinking on his own. That would be too sad.”

“You said that before,” Minho told him, a strange look entering his eyes. Newt wasn’t quite sure what it meant.

“What?”

“You keep saying Gally is your Very Good Friend,” Minho said, one corner of his mouth drawing up. “Since when are you two so close?”

“Aww, are you jealous?” Newt asked, grinning broadly. “Don’t worry, he may be my Very Good Friend, but you’re my Best Friend. Always. For ever and ever.”

“I wasn’t jealous,” Minho said, but Newt thought his smile looked a tiny bit more relaxed than it had before. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. “I just didn’t know you two were Very Good Friends. Aren’t you always disagreeing about everything?”

Newt dropped his mouth open, gaping in exaggerated shock. “We are _not,_ ” he said with all the indignation he could muster, “always disagreeing about everything.” He could see Minho casting him a doubtful look and continued. “We have had our arguments here and there, but all great friendships have some disagreements. But seriously, I love Gally. He’s incredible. And he’s a genius! You really should try this stuff, it’s life-changing.” He waved the jar of brew under Minho’s nose.

Right on cue, Frypan wandered over and plopped down on Minho’s other side, clutching his own jar of brew tightly in both hands. “Gally is the best, y’all. Seriously, what a great dude.”

“See?” Newt crowed gleefully. “That’s what I was just saying!”

Henry came over as well and sat beside Frypan. “What were you just saying?”

“Apparently these two are starting a Gally fan club,” Minho told him.

“Why’s that?” Henry asked, turning to look at Frypan.

“Because Gally is the best!” Frypan stated. “He’s kind and intelligent and wonderful and generous!”

“And he gave us this brew!” Newt added, raising his jar in a salute. He and Frypan clinked their jars together over Minho’s head as Minho ducked quickly, then they both took another big gulp.

“Can I try some?” Henry asked. Frypan obliged, letting Henry take a small sip from his jar. Henry promptly spat it out again onto the ground, sputtering and grimacing, much to the amusement of the other boys. But only a few seconds later, Henry was attempting another taste, and this time he managed to swallow it.

“Alright, there you go,” Frypan congratulated him, slapping him on the back victoriously. “Now he’s got it.”

“Would you like to try some?” Newt asked Minho, offering him his jar. “It’s better than last time. Well, at least, after you’ve drunk a bit, you stop noticing the taste.”

“As ridiculously tempting as that offer is, I’m afraid I’m going to have to pass,” Minho answered, rolling his eyes.

“Come on,” Newt wheedled, shaking the jar at Minho. “Please? Just a small taste? If you don’t want any more after that, I promise I’ll leave you alone and shut up about it.”

Minho sighed, his eyes roving over Newt’s face. Finally the corner of his mouth twitched in a half smile. “Well, when you put it like that, how can I say no?”

Newt cheered and surrendered the brew to Minho, who didn’t just take a small sip but downed half the remaining liquid in the jar.

“You’re right, it is slightly better than last time,” Minho said.

“But we’re almost out,” Newt said sadly, peering down into the jar and tilting it so the last remaining liquid pooled in the lower edge. He was a bit shocked at how quickly his mood sank at the thought. It was almost as though the world were ending; nothing felt as important as the fact that the brew was almost gone.

“Don’t worry,” Minho smirked at him and moved to stand up. “I’ll go get us some more.”

And just like that, his mood rocketed back up again. He was sure this was the happiest he had ever been, and that Minho was the best person in the whole world. “Thanks, Min,” he said, his smile taking over his entire face, which was starting to feel strangely rubbery. He poked his own cheek experimentally. Yes; there it was, still there where he had left it.

Minho laughed out loud at him, shaking his head. “You’re already three sheets to the wind,” he said. “I can’t believe how short a time it takes for you to get completely toasted. You’re such a lightweight.”

Newt shrugged; he knew it would be silly to try and deny it. “I don’t see why that’s such a bad thing.”

“Oh, it’s not. I just think it’s funny.” Minho turned and went to find Gally and his secret stash.

“I can’t believe you got Minho to drink some,” Henry commented, watching Minho’s retreating back.

“Why, does Minho not normally like fun stuff?” Frypan asked.

“Not that I’ve seen,” Henry answered. “From what I’ve seen, he mostly keeps to himself, doesn’t really join in group things.”

“That’s not completely true,” Newt jumped in, defending Minho. “He’s just gone most of the day because he’s always in the Maze. And in the evening he has to rest and conserve his energy for running again the next day. He has the most dangerous job out of all of us, remember?”

“Relax, Newt, I wasn’t saying it was a bad thing,” Henry said. “It was a completely neutral comment. That’s just been my observation of Minho. And I know his job is dangerous, believe me. I’m glad I don’t have to go in the Maze.”

“That’s probably why he didn’t want to drink, actually, he doesn’t want to be hungover in the Maze,” Newt mused quietly, almost talking to himself. “Maybe I shouldn’t have pressured him…”

“I don’t think a few sips is gonna do that much damage,” Henry reasoned. “And I don’t think Minho would have had any if he really hadn’t wanted to. Besides, it’s not like you had to try _that_ hard,” he said, flashing Newt a sly smile. “Minho would do pretty much anything you asked.”

“What?” Newt looked at him in surprise.

“Well, you know how Minho has kind of a soft spot for you,” Henry told him, tilting his head. “He’s different with you than he is with anyone else.”

“Is he?”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed that,” Frypan put in, nodding thoughtfully. “Like what Henry was saying before, how Minho kind of keeps to himself - that’s true, unless he’s with you, then he’ll interact with the group. But only if you’re there.”

“Yeah!” Henry agreed. “And also like how he’s pretty stubborn, and if I asked him to do something he’d probably do the opposite just to spite me, but if you ask him to do something, he would probably complain, but he would still do it. And he’s just _nice_ to you in a way he isn’t really to anyone else.”

“He definitely has a soft spot for you,” Frypan reiterated.

Newt listened to what they were saying with an oddly detached interest. He felt vaguely as though he should be feeling embarrassed or uncomfortable or possibly even happy about what they were saying, but those emotions all felt distant and muted. His mind wandered through a thick fog, supremely unconcerned with anything, let alone the conversation at hand.

“Well, we’ve known each other a pretty long time,” he finally said, when they seemed to expect a response. “We’ve worked up to the friendship we have, it didn’t just happen overnight.”

“So what you’re saying is, you earned that soft spot,” Frypan said, smiling at him.

Newt opened his mouth to protest, but at that very moment, Minho seemed to materialise before them, Gally and several more jars of brew in tow.

“Look who I found,” Minho said. “And no one needs to worry because there’s plenty of that disgusting drink for everyone.”

Henry, Frypan and Newt let out a loud cheer, which drew Jeff, Adam and Winston over to join in the revelry. Jeff and Adam both decided to risk trying the brew; Winston politely but firmly declined, but he stuck around for the conversation and goofing around.

In fact, as they all drank Gally’s concoction and began to act sillier and say more and more ridiculous things, there was only one person noticeably absent: Alby. Newt wondered where he was, if he was feeling lonely, if he felt abandoned or thought they had all taken Gally’s side over his. He made a mental note to seek Alby out at some point in the evening and make sure he was okay.

As the other boys grew more and more rowdy, the main group ended up drifting away from where Newt and Minho were sat together. Newt watched as Adam and Gally began to play wrestle, trying to knock each other out of the circle. Seeing Gally’s wide grin when he sent Adam spinning out of the circle, Newt felt cheerfully satisfied. He had done what he set out to do; he had helped cheer Gally up, and now he had passed the torch on to the other boys and was content to sit there with Minho, watching the others from a distance.

And occasionally watching Minho watch the others, because in his current uninhibited state he was having a difficult time coming up with adequate reasons not to look at Minho. He was so easy to look at. Newt’s eyes were drawn to Minho’s face (it was a very nice face), and traveled up to his thick, dark hair (did he put something in it to make it stand up like that? Or did it just do that on its own?), then back down again to his jawline, his neck, his shoulders.

As he sat there, admiring every aspect of Minho’s physical appearance, he knew he couldn’t deny or ignore it anymore. He finally admitted to himself the words he hadn’t even allowed himself to think, up until now. _He had a crush on Minho._ He had a crush on his best friend.

But it was okay, it was just a silly little crush. It didn’t really mean anything. It was probably normal to get little crushes on your friends from time to time, and it would probably go away eventually. He shouldn’t make it into a bigger deal than it was. Most crushes faded with time. At least, he assumed they did. This was the first crush he could remember having.

 _That doesn’t mean anything,_ Newt reminded himself. _A first crush is not the same as a first love. It’s not. This is just a harmless, silly crush. Minho is just my friend. My best friend._

He realised he had been thinking the word ‘just’ a lot. _Just_ a crush. _Just_ a friend. Just. The word was starting to lose its meaning.

Newt watched Minho take another drink from the jar, and he thought about what Henry and Frypan had said. Suddenly it felt very important to clarify a few things.

“Minho,” Newt started, but now he had no idea where he was going with this. “Do you… are we….” he trailed off, uncertain.

“What?” Minho had an almost hopeful spark in his eye. Like he couldn’t wait for Newt to spit out whatever it was he was trying to say, and he was hoping it would be the right question.

 _What is the right question?_ Newt wondered. He somehow felt certain that what he had originally intended to ask was very much the wrong question, but he still had no idea what the right one was, and all the thoughts seemed to have fled his mind. He waited, mind blank, hoping for inspiration to strike.

“What?” Minho said again, a hint of urgency in his voice.

“Do you think I’m special?” Newt blurted out. That still wasn’t the right question, but it was closer.

“Do I think you’re special?” Minho repeated, a smile beginning to play across his lips. “In what way?”

Newt’s courage abruptly deserted him. “Nevermind, it was a stupid question. Forget I asked.”

“No, it wasn’t stupid,” Minho protested. “I just want to make sure I understand. Special how?”

“I just meant…” Newt paused, thinking. _There was that word ‘just’ again._ “Do you treat me differently than the others? Are you different around me than you are around them?”

“Well, yeah, I thought that was obvious,” Minho laughed. “You’re my best friend, of course I’m different with you. I actually like you, for some unknown reason,” he teased, nudging Newt with his elbow.

Newt tried to laugh, but he couldn’t. Something, inexplicably, had changed, and now everything seemed to make his mood drop lower and lower. His heart felt so heavy, but he couldn’t understand why.

Nothing had happened. Had it? Everything was fine. Wasn’t it?

“Minho,” he said suddenly. “Do you think I’m a good person?”

“What are you talking about?” Minho asked, brow furrowed. “Of course you’re a good person. You’re the best person I know.”

“You only know eight people,” Newt pointed out.

“Yeah, but still,” Minho replied, offering a slight smile. He still looked confused. “Why are you asking all these questions, what’s up?”

Newt shrugged, looking down. He leaned over and rested his forehead on Minho’s shoulder, closing his eyes and exhaling. He could feel some of the tension leave his chest. “Do you think I… take advantage of you? Of our friendship?”

Minho let out a surprised laugh, and Newt felt his shoulder shift underneath him. “What? No, of course not! How would you be taking advantage of me?”

Newt didn’t want to raise his head, so he left it there on Minho’s shoulder. It felt safer here anyway, and easier to talk, hiding his face in Minho’s shirt. “Because, I don’t know, maybe sometimes I use our friendship to make you do things you didn’t want to do? If I asked you to do something, and you didn’t want to, would you feel ok telling me no? I just, I don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything, just because I asked you or wanted you to or something.”

“Where the hell is this coming from? You hardly ever ask me for anything, what horrible mistreatment is supposed to be happening?” When Minho spoke, Newt could feel his voice as much as hear it. He wished he could curl into Minho’s chest and be surrounded by it.

“I don’t know,” he answered. “I think I’m just feeling guilty because I made you drink when you didn’t want to, and I know you have to be up early tomorrow to run, and - ”

“You didn’t _make_ me drink,” Minho interrupted, sounding amused. The timbre of his voice was soothing. “I changed my mind, that’s all. And that’s not why I didn’t want to drink in the first place anyway. I didn’t want to drink because I knew somebody needed to be at least semi-functional to look after your sorry ass if you get sick again.”

Newt lifted his head up to look at Minho, and saw Minho grinning at him expectantly, waiting for him to laugh or perhaps tease Minho back as he normally did. But Newt couldn’t quite bring himself to pretend everything was fine, not yet.

“See, _that’s_ what I mean,” he pushed forward stubbornly. “Why do you have to take care of me? If you feel obligated for some reason, you needn’t be. I’ll be fine, I promise.” His heart twisted at what felt distinctly like a lie.

The expression on Minho’s face turned serious, and he reached out and took Newt’s hand, holding it tightly in his own. “Newt, I don’t _have_ to take care of you, I _want_ to. I want to because… you take care of everyone else, and it’s not a bad thing to just let someone else take care of you for once. You deserve to be taken care of just like everyone else.”

Newt’s eyes were filling with tears, and he was having a harder time than usual keeping them at bay. It was probably the alcohol’s fault. “Hey Minho?” he said softly.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t let me drink anymore.”

“Tonight, or ever?”

Newt laughed. “For now, we’ll say tonight. I’m still deciding about ever.”

Minho laughed too. “Okay. You got it.”

Newt realised Minho was still holding his hand. He shifted his hand, lacing their fingers together, and Minho smiled softly at him. It was Newt’s favourite of Minho’s smiles, the kind where his mouth didn’t move very far, but his dimples opened, forming deep pockets in his cheeks that Newt found irresistibly adorable.

Newt leaned his head sideways on Minho’s shoulder, and he couldn’t stop himself from rubbing the side of his face into Minho just a little bit. Minho leaned his own head down on top of Newt’s. After a few minutes, Newt’s neck began to cramp slightly from the awkward angle, but he didn’t want to move yet. He shifted his hips forward, and leaned his body more diagonally into Minho, so that his neck wasn’t at such an extreme angle. This also meant more of his upper body was in contact with Minho’s, which he wasn’t complaining about, and Minho didn’t seem to mind either. Minho moved his head ever so slightly, turning his face toward Newt. He could feel the corner of Minho’s mouth against the top of his head, and every time Minho exhaled, Newt’s hair fluttered the tiniest bit.

Eventually the other boys drifted back over to where they were sitting, and as though they had an unspoken agreement, Newt and Minho both sat up, putting a few inches of space between them. He thought he felt Minho’s hand loosen from his own, and before he had consciously decided it, his own loosened as well, and then their hands seemed to float apart of their own accord. Without Minho’s surrounding it, Newt’s hand felt empty and cold.

It wasn’t that he thought the others would have a problem with it if they noticed him and Minho sitting like that. But he would rather keep it between the two of them at the moment. He still wasn’t sure what to call this thing that he thought he felt growing between them; it felt precious and delicate and fragile, so he wanted to keep it secret, safe from outside influences and threats, as long as possible.

Which shouldn’t be too difficult, really, because even though Newt was now admitting to himself that he had a crush on Minho, he also knew that he would never be able to do anything about it. There were a lot of reasons, some that he didn’t feel comfortable dissecting (he’d rather not know exactly how much of a coward he was), but the main reason was, or at least he told himself the main reason was, that their friendship came first. Minho’s friendship was the most important thing to him in the entire world, as limited as their world may be, and he refused to even entertain the idea of risking it.

A few minutes later, Newt again noticed the conspicuous absence of Alby. He stood up, quietly excusing himself from the group, and went to look for him.

He found Alby in the hut that he used to share with Gally, but that Newt now supposed he inhabited alone. “You don’t have to quarantine yourself, you know,” Newt told him, making a weak attempt at some humour. His legs wobbled a bit and he threw a hand out to grab the wall and stabilise himself. He was feeling a bit more sober now than he had when he talked to Minho, but he still wasn’t completely steady.

“Woah, careful there,” Alby warned him, standing up from the bed and putting his hands out to help Newt.

Newt accepted his help gratefully, taking Alby’s arm and allowing Alby to lead him over to the bed. They sat down next to each other, and Newt turned to face him. “I’m serious. You don’t have to hide in here, you can come join us. I think Gally would be okay with it, he’s cheered up considerably, and I don’t think he would begrudge you having a bit of fun.”

Alby shook his head. He wouldn’t quite meet Newt’s eye. “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” he said. “Besides, I’m not really in the mood. I’d rather be alone for now.”

“Okay,” Newt said, nodding reluctantly. “I understand. How are you doing, though? Are you alright?”

Alby glanced up at him. “I’ll be fine.”

They were silent for a moment. “I’m really sorry,” Newt finally said, his voice soft. “This must be such a difficult situation for you.”

Alby shrugged. “It is what it is.”

Newt reached out and put his hand over Alby’s, squeezing gently. Alby looked into his eyes, and he seemed to be asking Newt a silent question. Newt looked back, not sure what the question was but hoping he gave Alby the answer he was looking for.

He wasn’t sure who started it, but then they were both leaning in for a hug and Newt wrapped his arms around Alby’s middle as Alby clung to him. He didn’t cry, not like Gally, but Newt knew that didn’t mean he was devoid of feeling. In his own way, Alby was probably equally as devastated as Gally had been.

Finally, they broke apart, and Alby leaned back. “Thanks, Newt,” he said quietly.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Not really. But I’ll be fine.”

Newt could only hope it was the truth.


	8. Chapter 8

The days passed. Soon there was another Greenie, and then another. Joe joined Winston in taking care of the animals, and Justin became what Frypan liked to call his “sous chef”. With each month, Newt felt that the passage of time went faster and faster, as though his perception of it were not strictly linear, but rather governed by a comparison to the total accumulated amount of time he had experienced.

It had never been formally decided, but they had gradually gotten into the habit of having a bonfire and a bit of a celebration the night of the Greenie’s arrival every month. It served not only as a welcome to the newest member of their family, but also as a marker for the ones already there that they had made it another month. A symbol of survival, and hopefully, perhaps wishfully, of being that much closer to escape. They had settled into a comfortable monthly, weekly, and daily rhythm.

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe, Newt reflected later, they had become too comfortable. They had gone so long without a casualty, and all but one of them had never actually had to personally experience losing someone.

Maybe they had, bit by bit, stopped respecting the danger of the Maze as much as they should. And maybe the Maze had decided to reclaim that respect.

The arrival of the thirteenth Glader (an inauspicious start, Newt realised later) including George, the boy who had died, also marked Alby’s twelve month anniversary. Newt could tell Alby had mixed feelings about this, but was trying to put on a cheerful face for the others.

The day seemed to be unusually plagued with accidents and injuries. While butchering the pig for that night’s bonfire celebration, Winston’s hand slipped and he accidentally sliced open his palm. Jeff bandaged him up as well as he could, given that they had nothing to use for stitches (Joe offered to undo the hem of his shirt for thread, but Jeff flatly refused, saying that the infection Winston would likely get from that dirty, disease-riddled thread would be worse than a bit of light scarring on his palm).

While cooking lunch, Frypan suffered a burn down the entire length of his forearm. It looked bad, but Jeff said it could have been much worse. Then, while working on one of the new dormitories, Adam missed the nail and hit his thumb with the hammer instead, causing it to swell up and turn black and blue. Even later, one of the supports fell and the structure collapsed entirely, though luckily no one was hurt.

But the worst incident was early that morning, with the newbie. It happened when Newt turned his back to climb out of the box after doing his traditional introduction.

That moment would come to haunt Newt. If he had only turned and offered to help the Greenie up first. Or if he had stood back and let the other boy climb out before him. Maybe everything would have been different. Maybe disaster could have been averted.

Newt had just been helped out of the box by Alby. He was dimly aware that the newbie had climbed up onto the crates behind him. He heard a sort of scuffing, sliding noise, and then all the boys on the ground level gave a collective gasp. When he turned to look, the Greenie was at the bottom of the box, groaning and rubbing the side of his head. When he pulled his hand away, his fingertips were covered in blood.

Newt jumped down to help him, immediately followed by Alby and Jeff. He saw the edge of the crate that the newbie must have hit his head on; it had a disturbing smear that Newt didn’t want to look too closely at.

“Sit up slowly,” Jeff was saying, as Alby helped support the Greenie’s head. “Do you feel dizzy? Nauseous?”

The Greenie nodded, then promptly leaned over and threw up. Another collective noise, this time of disgust, arose from the boys at ground level, and many of them backed away. Luckily the Greenie must not have had much food in his stomach, because the contents were mostly liquid.

“Woah, take it easy,” Jeff cautioned. “Try not to move, alright? Especially quick movements, gotta keep it slow and steady for now, good that? I mean, ok?”

“Ok,” the newbie croaked, wiping the saliva dribbling from his mouth with the back of his hand. “By the way, my name’s Alfred.”

“Damn, got your name back already?” Alby chuckled. “Well, that’s one way to do it.” His voice sounded light and casual, but Newt could see how tense his shoulders were, and he knew Alby was only affecting calm so as not to freak out the Greenie. Alfred.

Jeff continued checking Alfred over, then stood up and motioned Newt and Alby to the side for a private counsel.

“Well, he definitely has a concussion,” he said wearily. “But it’s hard to tell how severe it is just from an external examination.”

“It looked like there was a lot of blood,” Newt said, fear dropping like lead in his stomach.

“That may not mean anything, head injuries bleed a lot, even minor ones,” Jeff said. “But I think we should let him rest, just in case. He’s already going to be so disoriented since it’s his first day, and this definitely won’t help. The best thing for him is rest, but we should also probably have someone wake him up every few hours to make sure he’s not getting any worse.”

“Ok,” Newt nodded. “We can take turns. I’ll go first.”

Alby agreed, and once again Newt went to climb out of the box. This time it was Minho who leaned down to help haul him out, and Newt felt a sudden flash of relief that his best friend had decided to stick around to see the new Greenie after all, instead of heading directly into the Maze as he had been thinking of doing. Simply seeing Minho there made him feel calmer, eased the chokehold of anxiety he had been feeling since the Greenie fell.

“He ok?” Minho murmured, his eyes concerned.

“He has a concussion, we don’t know how serious it is yet,” Newt answered quietly. “But hopefully he’ll be fine.”

Minho frowned thoughtfully, then shrugged. “I better get going. Let me know how he’s doing when I get back, ok?”

“Sure,” Newt said.

“And try not to worry too much,” Minho added. “You can’t help him by making yourself sick too.”

Newt exhaled a laugh and felt a small smile press onto his face. “If you say so.”

Minho smiled in return; it was tiny, but reassuring. “See you tonight,” he said, holding out his hand.

“See ya,” Newt answered, slapping it as usual, then swinging his hand back the other way and continuing with their usual pattern. Over time they had added a few more moves to this routine, mostly to be silly and because Adam had once called it a “secret handshake”, which inspired them to make it even more elaborate just to mess with him.

When they had finished, Minho turned and ran quickly into the Maze. Newt watched him go, and as always, part of him wished he could skip over the entire day to the part where Minho would come back.

He turned back to see Alfred being helped carefully out of the box by several other boys, then escorted slowly off to a bed in the canopied area Jeff liked to call his Med-jack tent (Jeff had taken to calling himself the Med-jack, because he was a fake medic who jacked people up when he didn’t know what he was doing).

After a few hours of working in the gardens with Henry and Jeff, Newt went to check on Alfred. He was fast asleep when Newt approached his bed in the Med-jack tent, and Newt felt bad for having to shake him gently awake.

“Hey, Alfred,” he said softly as the other boy stirred and blinked up at him. “Sorry to have to wake you, but I need to check in on you, see how you’re doing. Are you feeling any better, or any worse?”

Alfred sat up slowly, wincing. “My head still hurts,” he said. “And I still feel like I wanna hurl, but not as bad as before… and I think I’m less dizzy than I was before?”

Newt nodded encouragingly. “That’s something, at least,” he said. “Can I check your pupils to see if they’re dilated?”

Alfred nodded, and Newt bent down to look at his eyes. “Can I ask you something?” Alfred asked after a few seconds.

“Sure,” Newt replied, still trying to assess his pupil size. “What is it?”

“Where am I? Why can’t I remember anything? Is it because I hit my head?”

Newt paused. It wasn’t necessarily an unusual question, given the circumstances. Except for the fact that Newt distinctly remembered telling Alfred in the box, before the disastrous attempt to climb out, that none of them knew where they were and that no one could remember anything except their own name. He hadn’t had time to do his entire opening spiel before the Greenie took a tumble, but he knew he had gotten to that part.

Newt sat back and looked at Alfred’s face, instead of just at his eyes. He looked calm for the moment, his expression inquisitive, but beneath the surface Newt thought he detected another emotion. Perhaps a growing panic?

“Are you feeling confused, disoriented?” Newt asked Alfred.

“Well, yeah,” Alfred admitted. “I can’t remember anything and I don’t know where I am. That’s pretty disorienting.”

He had a point.

Newt weighed his options carefully. Brain damage, or just normal Greenie confusion? Should he tell Jeff he thought Alfred might have seriously injured himself, or would that just cause undue alarm?

This was another moment that would come to haunt him later. If only he had mentioned something to Jeff, maybe they would have kept a closer eye on Alfred. If only he’d had better judgement. _If only, if only._

But he decided it was nothing, not worth bothering Jeff over.

“This here, where we are right now, is called the Med-jack tent,” he explained to Alfred. “The whole area outside is what we call the Glade. But beyond that, we have no idea where we are, or who sent us here. And the memory loss is something different, it happened to all of us. All of us arrived here with no memories, just like you.” He thought it best to refrain from mentioning the Maze just yet; after all, Alfred was supposed to be resting, and Newt didn’t want him to overtax himself.

“Ok,” Alfred said, nodding thoughtfully. “So it’s normal then?”

Newt tried to feel reassured by his reaction. “Yes, it’s totally normal.”

“Ok,” Alfred said again, and he looked around the room, taking in the rough interior, the canvas walls, the wildlife spilling in underneath the tent flaps. He looked back at Newt. “Can I go back to sleep now?”

“Sure,” Newt answered, relieved. “Someone’ll be along to check on you again in a few hours, alright?”

“Ok.” Alfred was already settling down onto the small cot, curling onto his side and closing his eyes. He looked so peaceful.

When Newt returned to the gardens, Henry was alone. “Where’s Jeff?” he asked, looking around.

“He got called away, Med-jack duties,” Henry answered. “Nothing too serious though, I think. Just little accidents.”

Newt frowned, but nodded. Now he was definitely glad he hadn’t bothered Jeff with his concerns about Alfred; it looked like he already had his hands full. “Can you take a turn checking on the newbie in a few hours? Just make sure he’s not getting any worse.”

“Sure,” Henry agreed, wiping sweat out of his eyes and leaving a streak of dirt behind. He bent over the hole he was digging and scooped another few shovelfuls out. Newt joined him, and soon they had dug a whole row, ready to be planted. They only caught glimpses of Jeff as he ran back and forth the rest of the day, kept busy attending to the various injuries and accidents, and they finished that day’s tasks between the two of them.

Newt never knew exactly when Minho would return, so he had grown used to keeping one eye on the Maze entrance from late afternoon onward. When he saw Minho jogging wearily through the doors, he went to meet him, as usual.

When he saw Newt, Minho nodded wordlessly, held out his hand for Newt to slap and again they performed their complicated ritual.

“Find anything?” Newt asked. The question came every day, compulsory, but by now he never really expected Minho to answer in the affirmative.

Predictably, Minho shook his head. “Nope. Nothing new.”

Newt nodded, his mouth twisting unhappily.

“How’s the Greenie?”

“I don’t think he’s doing any worse, at least,” Newt answered. “I was hoping he’d be doing a lot better by now, though.”

“I’m sure he’ll be good as new in a few days,” Minho said.

Newt shrugged. “Hope so. Anyway, speaking of the Greenie, I better go check in with Jeff for a second. See you at the bonfire tonight?”

“Obviously,” Minho said, and when Newt looked at him, his eyes were dancing.

Ever since Gally’s brew had proved to be a huge success, he had started the tradition of bringing it out every month at the bonfire celebration for the new Greenie. And since that night when they had discovered its (relative) safety and efficacy, Newt had either abstained entirely, or taken it very easy with the brew, the memory of his embarrassing tendencies when uninhibited making him hesitant to surrender control again.

But maybe, tonight. He might be willing to put up with a little embarrassment if it also meant he could reduce his nervousness enough to get closer to Minho than he could when he was sober.

Maybe.

Newt waved his farewell, then went to find Jeff, who he spotted near the remains of the collapsed structure the builders had been working on, probably checking that none of them had been injured.

“Hey,” Newt called, flashing a smile. “How’s it going? You’ve certainly been kept busy today, haven’t you?”

“That’s an understatement,” Jeff laughed. “I think we’ve almost had more accidents today than the rest of the time I’ve been here.”

“Which is saying something,” Newt remarked.

Suddenly Jeff cocked his head, brow furrowed. “Do you hear that?” he asked. Newt looked around, wondering what he was talking about.

He found out quickly enough. There was some kind of commotion near the open doors of the Maze; Newt could hear shouting, and it looked like more and more boys were gathering there.

He and Jeff looked at each other briefly, faces full of dread, and then at the same time they both took off running towards the source of the disturbance.

It was Alfred. He had left his cot in the Med-jack tent, and he appeared to be very confused and hostile. He was standing with his back to the Maze entrance, facing the other boys, his eyes wide with panic.

“Where am I?” Alfred screamed. The question sounded like it had been torn out of his throat, desperate and haunted.

“We already told you,” Alby said, in what Newt assumed was supposed to be a calming voice. “You’re in the Glade.”

“I don't know what that means!” Alfred shouted, looking around wildly, eyes darting from one boy to another. “I don’t know what any of that means!”

Henry walked up to him and tried to lay a reassuring hand on his arm. “Why don’t you just calm down―”

“Get off me!” Alfred shrugged his arm roughly, pulled it from Henry’s grasp and took several rapid steps backwards. Closer to the doors, which would begin to close any second.

“Take it easy,” Jeff said, cautiously stepping towards Alfred with a hand raised in a non-threatening gesture. At the same time Newt heard someone behind him, he didn’t know who, saying, “Calm down, we’re trying to help you.”

“Stay away from me!” Alfred screamed, and now he sounded even more crazed than before. “Don’t come any closer!” He looked like a wild animal that had been cornered. Terrified. Dangerous.

Then they heard it. A loud creak from somewhere inside the Maze, and a strange, disembodied gust of wind, like a final warning to keep back. All the boys visibly reacted to the warning, many of them flinching or taking a step back, away from the Maze entrance.

All except Alfred, who didn’t seem to even notice. He took another few steps back, until he was standing right on the threshold of the doors.

Slowly, the doors began to grind closed. Newt felt frozen in time; he was dimly aware of the boys around him urging Alfred away from the dwindling gap between the doors, their faces tense and fearful. But Alfred seemed not to even be aware of any it. He took another step backward, and another, and another, then turned and ran, stumbling over his own feet momentarily but regaining his balance and continuing on until he was past the doors, which were now only a few feet from each other. Newt watched in numb horror as he ran further and further into the Maze, finally disappearing completely as the doors closed with a snap.

No one said anything. Some of the boys looked at each other, eyes wide with guilt. Not even a minute after the doors had closed, the bone-chilling howl of a Griever rang out from somewhere deep within the Maze. Newt shivered, hot and cold flashes running from his shoulders down to the base of his spine.

Alfred was out there, alone and helpless, probably concussed. He didn’t stand a chance.

The bonfire celebration was canceled, naturally. No one felt like celebrating; the Glade was unusually quiet that night, lacking the usual noise of a dozen rowdy boys excited to be finished with work for the day.

Newt didn’t even remember going back to the small one-room hut he shared with Minho, but somehow he was there, sat on the edge of his bed. Minho was sat right next to him, obviously trying to cheer him up.

“Maybe he’ll make it,” Minho suggested. “I mean, no one’s ever actually tried staying out there at night, we don’t know that it’s necessarily a death sentence.” Newt wondered if he actually believed that or if he was trying to keep Newt from giving up hope.

“What about the Grievers, though?” Newt asked.

“Well, no one’s ever seen them, either,” Minho pointed out. “Maybe they’re all bark and no bite.”

“ _Something_ Stung George,” Newt insisted. “Alby told me. He didn’t see what it was, but it did something bad to George, poisoned him or infected him or something. We know they’re not harmless.”

“Still, doesn’t mean he can’t avoid them for one night,” Minho reasoned. “I don’t know, maybe he is already dead, but we shouldn’t start mourning until we at least know for sure, right?”

Despite what he said to Minho, Newt hadn’t given up hope. The opposite, in fact: he had so much hope it was painful. He wanted Alfred to come walking out of those doors the next morning, needed it like he needed to breathe.

Newt looked up into Minho’s eyes, searching for something there, some reason for hope. Minho looked steadily back at him, mouth pressed into a hint of a sad smile. Then Newt felt Minho’s arm moving around his back, and Minho was pulling him into a hug.

Newt hugged him back gratefully, desperately. Minho so rarely solicited physical affection; although he did seem to make more exceptions for Newt, still each time felt like a precious gift that Newt never took for granted. He hadn’t realised how much he needed this embrace until it happened. It felt like Minho’s arms were the only thing keeping him from flying apart in a thousand different directions.

The next morning, when Newt accompanied Minho to the doors as he was leaving, they started to do their customary hand-slapping routine, but halfway through Minho’s fingers closed around his wrist, halting his movement.

“If he’s still out there, I’ll find him, ok?” Minho said softly.

Newt met his eyes and nodded. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything in response.

When Newt saw Minho return from the Maze that evening, he didn’t need to ask if Minho had seen any sign of Alfred. He could read it in the dejected slump of his shoulders, in the way he couldn’t quite meet Newt’s eye as he pulled out what looked like a bloody, torn rag. It took Newt a few seconds to realise it was a shirt, and then a few seconds more to recognise it as Alfred’s, and then the crushing, brutal truth sunk in.

Alfred was gone.

_It’s my fault._ The words rose, unbidden, in his mind, and he felt the truth of them in his bones. _It’s my fault. It’s my fault._

Newt only realised Gally was standing next to him when he spoke. “I could have stopped him,” Gally said in a hoarse whisper. Newt turned to look at him, and he saw Gally staring bleakly at Alfred’s bloody, mutilated shirt, his eyes glassy. Gally turned his head and met Newt’s gaze. “There was a moment there, just a split second, but I could have done something, I could’ve - I don’t know, tackled him, _something._ Anything besides just let him go in…” Gally’s eyes shifted, and he sniffed and wiped under his nose.

“It’s not your fault,” Newt told him, his voice quiet. _It’s mine. I knew there was something wrong with him and I did nothing._ “Even if you had tried to stop him, he might have run into the Maze even faster, to get away from you. You didn’t know what would happen.”

Gally didn’t say anything. He looked back at Newt, eyes sad.

“It’s not your fault,” Newt said again, more firmly. “Not any more than it was Alby’s fault when George died. This shit happens here sometimes, and there’s nothing any of us can do about it.” _It’s my fault. I could have done something._

Gally looked down. Still looking at his shoes, he nodded quickly. “Thanks, Newt,” he mumbled, then turned and shuffled away.

Newt wished he could believe his own words as easily. It was strange that as much as he saw the logic in his own arguments when it came to Gally, he couldn’t apply them to himself. He felt quite strongly that it wasn’t Gally’s fault, and equally strongly that it was his fault.

It _was_ his fault. Alfred’s death was on his hands.

Newt felt himself slipping into a deep dark hole, fingers scrabbling at crumbling earth to slow his descent, terrified and desperate. The words _‘It’s your fault, it’s your fault,’_ echoed in his head, and each time he slipped a little farther. Some part of him wondered if he even wanted not to fall. If he deserved it.

He slipped a little more. And a little more. He slipped.

He let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEW it's been a while! Sorry about that, school kind of got the better of me for a little bit there haha but the good news is the semester is over now so I should have more time to write and I might be able to do an update a week for a while! (But even though classes are over, I'm still working in the lab so no promises lol.)  
> To anyone who's been waiting for an update, thank you for being so patient and I hope you enjoyed this chapter! The next few are all going to be on the sad side I'm afraid, but it will get happy and fluffy again, I promise.


	9. Chapter 9

Everyone was shaken by Alfred’s death.

It didn’t seem to matter that they hadn’t gotten the chance to really get to know him, that he hadn’t been there long enough to truly become part of their family. He had still been one of them, and now he was gone.

It was Gally who first brought up putting his name on the wall. Alfred hadn’t had the chance to do it before he died, what with the head injury and spending so little time in the Glade.

“If we carve his name, we’ll just have to immediately cross it out,” Justin muttered. “Seems kind of pointless and depressing.”

“He was still one of us,” Gally argued hotly. “He was still here, no matter how short a time. That should be enough.”

Alby spoke up suddenly. “We’re carving his name,” he said. The weight of his voice lent his words an air of finality. “We need to remember what happened to him, and make sure it never happens to anyone ever again.” That was the end of the discussion. Everyone knew better than to argue with Alby.

They held a short funeral, if it could even be called that. Alby carved Alfred’s name into the wall, the wall where they had each stood in turn and carved their own name. Then Alby scratched several lines through the name to show that Alfred was no longer with them. The wall now bore thirteen names. Thirteen names of thirteen boys who had been sent up, memories wiped and lives torn from them. Thirteen names, and two of them were crossed out.

They buried the shirt Minho had brought back from the Maze in the woods, next to the grave that held George’s decaying corpse. It was the only piece of Alfred they had. There was a brief moment of silence. No one spoke; there was nothing to say. Anything any of them could say would have felt false and pandering. None of them had really known him. Newt couldn’t help but find that fact desperately, soul-crushingly sad. Alfred had died completely alone and unloved, and they couldn’t even mourn him properly because they had no idea who he was. No one did, unless there was someone outside the Maze who remembered him.

Outside the Maze. Newt was starting to wonder if such a place even existed. Not for him, at least. All he’d ever known was this small, green space enclosed by those towering stone walls, and beyond them, the Maze. As far as he was concerned, this was the entire world. There was nothing else.

The assembled group broke apart abruptly but quietly. Everyone seemed subdued. Newt saw Gally looking off in the direction Alby had gone, his face tense. Newt thought he looked conflicted. Maybe he was struggling to decide whether or not to go after him. If so, he must have decided against it, because he looked down and hastily wiped a tear from his cheek before walking away quickly in the opposite direction.

Minho stood by his side the entire time. When the assembly broke, he took Newt, who had been standing still and staring off into the distance without seeing anything, by the hand, and pulled his arm gently, just enough to break him out of his reverie. Newt thought Minho would let go of his hand then, but he held on to it all the way back to their hut, where Newt went automatically to sit on his bed. Minho sat beside him, still holding his hand. Newt kept waiting for him to let go, but he never did.

“Are you okay?” Minho asked cautiously.

Newt looked up slowly. It took his eyes a few seconds longer than usual to focus on Minho’s face. “Do you think we’ll ever get out of here?” he asked instead of answering.

Minho blinked in surprise. “Yeah, of course,” he said.

Newt looked away from him. “I don’t.”

“Newt—”

“I’m sorry,” Newt interrupted, immediately feeling guilty at the concern in Minho’s tone. “It’s nothing to do with you, you’re an excellent Runner, and if there were a way out of here, I’m sure you’d find it. In fact, I’m sure you would have found it a long time ago. That’s part of the reason why I don’t think a way out exists.”

Minho said nothing. He squeezed Newt’s hand.

“I’m sorry,” Newt said again. “I know I should be trying to stay optimistic, but I – I can’t. Not anymore. I’m just…” He sighed. “I’m just too tired.”

“ _I’m_ sorry,” Minho said. “I feel like I’ve failed you. Maybe I should have found something by now, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”

“No, Minho, I didn’t mean…” Newt shook his head, trying to find the right words to explain. “You haven’t failed me, or any of us. You should never think that. You couldn’t fail me, it’s not possible.”

Again Minho was silent, but his eyes burned with an intensity that almost frightened Newt. He wasn’t sure what Minho was feeling, but whatever it was, he was feeling it quite strongly.

Newt finally looked away again, cowed by the magnitude of Minho’s gaze. They sat together in silence for a while. Without seeing it, Newt could feel Minho’s thumb rubbing minute patterns into the knuckle of his first finger.

“Do you…” Minho faltered, then started again. “Do you want me to stay with you? We could push our beds together, and I could just… stay with you. If you want.”

Newt considered. It might help. He had found Minho’s physical presence to be comforting before. “Okay,” he answered, still afraid to meet Minho’s eye.

But when they had pushed the beds together and were curled up on them, Minho’s arms wrapped around Newt and holding him secure against his chest, he didn’t feel better. If anything, he felt worse. Minho was being so patient and kind and trying so hard to help him, but there was still something wrong with him. He was too broken to be fixed. No one could fix him, not even Minho.

He wanted to cry. Everything felt awful and hopeless and meaningless. Alfred was dead and it was his fault and they were trapped here with no escape and their entire past had been stolen from them.

Who would Alfred have been, if he’d had the chance? What little niche would he have carved for himself in their odd but wonderful family? What would have been his likes, his dislikes? Who would he have become best friends with? Who would he have been in the Glade?

For that matter, who had he been before? Who had _any_ of them been before? Not for the first time, Newt felt like something inside him was missing.

_Who was I before? What was I like? What happened to me? Who did I love?_

He really did start to cry. Minho held him tighter and rubbed his arm in comfort. He didn’t ask Newt what was wrong, which was good because Newt didn’t think he could explain it if he tried.

There was something wrong with him. Something missing. He was broken; he couldn’t be fixed. The darkness pressed down on him, the weight paralysing him and crushing him until he could barely breathe.

It was a long time before Newt drifted off to sleep, the pillow beneath his cheek damp with tears and Minho’s arms around him having long since gone slack with unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Sorry this chapter is on the short side; this chapter and the next were supposed to be together as one chapter but it started getting kind of long so I wanted to break it up, but the only good place to have a chapter break was here. The next chapter should be pretty long to make up for it though :)


	10. Chapter 10

The days blurred together. Newt gradually drew more and more inside himself, until he was so isolated from the others that he could hardly even talk to them. Some of them, Frypan, Jeff, Henry, tried to engage him and draw him out, but he resisted their attempts again and again until they eventually gave up. He felt so far removed from the other boys, from their life in the Glade. None of it seemed to matter anymore. All the things that had previously brought him joy only made him feel cold and dull inside.

Then one day, the fog lifted, and Minho was there.

Minho had always been there, of course. Though he had never actively tried to draw Newt out of his melancholy, he had always remained a constant, comforting presence. But this time was different. Minho was here, right now, right in front of him. And it was the wrong time of day. What was he doing here?

“Shouldn’t you have left by now?” Newt asked, frowning.

For a second Minho’s face was inscrutable, and then his expression resolved into something Newt recognised: he smiled. It was faint, but unmistakable. “I got Alby to take my place. I wanted a day off. Is it ok if I just hang out with you today?”

Newt squinted at him, trying to remember the last time Minho had taken a day off from running. Not since Adam had been the Greenie, at least. “You wanted a day off?”

Minho bit back a laugh. “Yeah. Is that allowed?”

Newt shook his head quickly. “Yes, of course you’re allowed, I was just… surprised. You haven’t taken a day off in so long.” They stood awkwardly for a moment, looking at each other in silence, until Newt spoke again. “So, you’re going to… hang out with me? All day?”

To Newt’s surprise, Minho actually looked tentative. “If that’s ok with you,” Minho said. Newt gave a small nod, and he continued. “I could help you out with the animals or in the gardens or whatever you were going to do today?”

Newt chewed his lip. “Joe and Winston and I usually milk the goats first, and then I have some things to do in the garden, but I was thinking of trying something new today.”

Minho’s eyes sparked with interest. “Oh yeah? What?”

“Frypan’s been saying for a while now how it would be really nice to have some butter to cook with, so I thought… I might try to make some from some of the milk.”

“You know how to make butter?” Minho asked, eyebrows shooting up. He looked impressed.

“Not exactly,” Newt answered, his mouth twisting into a wry expression. “I have sort of a vague idea and I thought I’d just… give it a go.”

“Alright, this I have _got_ to see,” Minho said as a smile crept slowly onto his face, cheeks creasing in that familiar way that used to set Newt’s heart racing. Back when he still felt things.

“We have to do the other stuff first,” Newt told him.

“Then let’s get to work!” Minho exclaimed. “Chop chop, let’s get on it! Can’t stand around talking all day.” He widened his eyes and tapped his wrist, an exaggerated picture of impatience. “We’re burning daylight here!”

There was a flicker inside Newt, like he wanted to laugh, but the laugh had become trapped, bogged down in the quagmire inside of him, unable to escape.

“Alright, we’re going, keep your shirt on,” he said instead. He tried to remember how to smile, but his face felt stiff and unnatural.

Minho muttered something that Newt didn’t quite catch, but it sounded a little like “Are you sure?” and he actually felt his cheek twitch in the beginning of a smile.

“It’s actually good you’re coming with me,” Newt commented as they walked towards the goat pens. “Henry and Jeff are busy helping Gally with some big building project, so I would have been all by myself in the gardens later, it probably would’ve taken me ages.”

“What exactly are we doing in the gardens?” Minho asked.

“I need to plant a whole field of potatoes,” Newt answered.

“Any reason you couldn’t split it up and do it on multiple days?” There was no accusation in Minho’s voice; he sounded as though he were simply wondering aloud.

“No, I have to do it all today,” Newt told him. “Fry and I cut up the potatoes with eyes yesterday so they’re all ready to go, we just have to dig the trenches and plant them.”

“Ok,” Minho shrugged.

They had almost reached the barn, where the goats were kept at night until the morning milking before being put out to pasture. “You’ve never actually milked the goats before, have you?” Newt asked.

“No, but I’ve watched you do it,” Minho said.

“Okay, but you should know that there’s a very specific hand motion that goes into it.”

Minho raised an eyebrow. “Oh is there?”

“Don’t be gross,” Newt said. He didn’t quite smile along with the remark, at least not as he would normally have done, but for the first time in several days he felt… something. Feelings were difficult to identify in the murky haze he spent most of his days in, and most of the time there was nothing to identify anyway.

“Is it anything like the motion one might make for - ”

“I said don’t be gross!” Newt repeated, louder this time, and before he stopped and thought about what he was doing, his hand had reached up and covered Minho’s mouth. Minho’s eyes danced and laughed at him over the top of his hand, and as soon as Newt realised what he’d done, he ripped his hand away, feeling a flush creeping over his face.

It was funny how Minho could almost effortlessly draw so much out of him. Five minutes with Minho, and he’d felt more than he’d felt in the entire past two weeks. Instead of feeling embarrassed, as he normally did when he thought about the effect Minho had on him so easily, he felt a rush of affection for him. Minho was so good for him. Minho was so good _to_ him. It was a shame, really. Even Minho couldn’t fix whatever was wrong with him.

They arrived at the barn where Joe and Winston were waiting with the goats. “We have an extra helper today,” Newt told them, and they both nodded and smiled at Minho, who almost shyly nodded back. Newt found himself once again wanting, but still not quite able (his face was still feeling rather stiff), to smile at the thought of Minho being shy. It was probably only his usual reserve and not shyness at all, but still.

Joe and Winston watched with idle curiosity as Newt demonstrated the process to Minho. “We’ll start with Gertie here,” he said, leading one of the milking does over, giving her an affectionate pat on the head before she jumped up on the milking stand, eager to access the food Winston had already put there. After Newt had cleaned off her teats and readied the bowl to collect the milk, he talked Minho through the technique.

“You want to use your thumb and first finger to close off the top of the teat, so the milk doesn’t just go back up into the udder,” Newt said. “And then you use the rest of your fingers to squeeze the milk down, going one at a time from top to bottom, in a sort of peristalsis motion.”

Minho didn’t say anything, but he narrowed his eyes at Newt, in a look that quite clearly said he thought Newt was being overly pedantic. In response, Newt gave the slightest roll of his eyes and flattened his lips against his teeth in a closed-mouth grimace. The corner of Minho’s mouth twitched, and he turned back toward the goat. This silent exchange once again felt comfortingly familiar, and Newt marveled at how well they’d learnt to understand one another even through simple facial expressions. He wished Minho could have spent the day with him more often, before. He’d missed this. He would miss this.

“Want to give it a go?” he asked. Minho stepped up to the goat, who was placidly snuffling in the food trough on the milking stand.

Winston and Joe both decided to chime in with some last-minute advice. “Be careful not to balloon the teat,” Winston cautioned. “Don’t want to hurt her or make her kick or anything.”

“And just let the first few squirts fall on the ground, in case there’s any dirt or anything in there,” Joe added.

“Oh yeah, good point, I almost forgot that,” Newt said as he slid the milk collection bowl out of the way.

Minho looked at the goat uncertainly. “Actually, could I watch one of you do it first?” he asked.

“Of course,” Newt answered, and stepped forward to take Minho’s place as he backed up. Newt started to milk Gertie, the by-now-familiar task consuming him for a moment, and autopilot took over as he rapidly cleared out the first bit of milk before moving the bowl back in place to collect the rest. Then he really got going, finding his rhythm, and in only a few seconds the bowl was already one-third full of creamy, white liquid.

He stopped and turned back to Minho. “Think you got it now?”

“How did you do that so fast?” Minho asked incredulously.

“Lots of practice,” Newt shrugged.

“Well, I’m definitely not going to be that fast,” Minho warned him. “That was insane. You’re really good at this.”

“I’m sure you could get there if you did it enough,” Newt said. He felt the heat of an involuntary blush beginning to bloom on his cheeks at the unexpected compliment and tamped down on the feeling. It was only milking, after all. It was silly to get excited over a compliment on something so simple.

Minho took Newt’s place by the goat, one hand reaching hesitantly for a teat. As if she could sense his uncertainty, Gertie began to shift her feet, and almost put a hoof in the milk bucket. Newt’s hand darted around Minho and rescued it just in time to stop it being overturned.

Minho had drawn his hand back again, his face as uncomfortable as Newt had ever seen it. Newt couldn’t help but find Minho’s newfound awkwardness endearing; he’d never seen Minho like this before, and especially not an area in which he himself was proficient. It was adorable.

Newt didn’t realise until a second after it happened that he had flashed a reassuring smile at Minho over his shoulder as he calmed Gertie and readjusted the milk bowl, and that it had come as easy as breathing. A true, genuine smile.

He stepped to the side and gestured for Minho to try again. Minho’s eyes sought his for confirmation, and for a second they held each other’s gaze, something unspoken passing between them. Then Newt nodded, and Minho stepped forward, and the spell was broken.

Minho’s movements were ever-so-slightly surer this time as he approached, and after glancing at him over her shoulder, Gertie seemed to decide he was harmless and resumed her single-minded focus on the food trough.

A few slow and shaky but nevertheless successful attempts later, Gertie appeared to be empty, and Newt, Winston and Joe agreed that Minho had gotten the hang of it enough to be let loose on some of the goats by himself. They had twelve does producing milk including Gertie, and Newt thought about how to adjust their normal routine now that there was an extra pair of hands milking.

“Winston, you take Lola, Joe can take Ivy, Minho you get Cinnamon, and I’ll take Pumpkin. We’ll be done in no time at all.”

“How can you tell which one is which?” Minho asked.

“Cinnamon is that brown one there, you know, because she’s the colour of cinnamon.” Newt pointed at one of the goats who was currently headbutting a pile of straw.

“There’s like three brown ones, how do you know that one’s Cinnamon?”

“Because Lola has socks, see?” Newt nudged Minho’s arm and pointed out the little white patches of hair around one goat’s ankles. “And Pumpkin has a big white splotch on her shoulder that’s shaped like a pumpkin.”

“Are you going to try and tell me Ivy has an ivy pattern on her or something?” Minho asked, suspiciously eyeing the black-coloured goat Joe was leading towards one of the other milking stands.

“No,” Newt said, smiling slightly. “She’s called that because she likes to chew on the ivy when we put them out to pasture.”

“Oh, of course. Obviously.”

“Hey, you try and come up with two dozen unique goat names,” Winston piped up. “And that’s just the goats, there are a lot of animals around here that we had to find names for.”

“You can tell we were scraping the bottom of the barrel with some of the chickens,” Newt told him. “What do we have now, three Norberts?”

“And two Mrs. Pennyfeathers,” Joe supplied.

Newt could tell by Minho’s smirk that he thought they were all ridiculous, but his eyes shone with affection anyway. They swept over Newt, and Newt gave a tiny shrug, as if to say, _Yes, I am ridiculous, but I don’t care._

They set to work milking the remaining goats, and Newt occasionally glanced up to see how Minho was getting on. He seemed intently focused on his task, but every now and again he would look up as he worked and catch Newt’s eye. Newt’s face remembered how to smile again.

When Newt, Winston and Joe had all finished their third goat each, Minho was still milking his second but he was nearly finished. Newt told Winston and Joe to go ahead and see to the other animals, and that he would take the goats out to the pasture after Minho had finished up.

They put the last bowl of milk in the collection bucket to be pasteurised later, and then Newt went around opening all the goat pens. The goats, who were well used to the routine by now, began to trot gamely towards the barn door. Newt followed behind, urging the stragglers and watching to make sure none of them wandered off. Without even realising he was doing it, he began to talk to them; at first just little noises and murmurs here and there, but later on he began to call out to specific animals, offering encouragement and correction, not minding that they only heeded him about half the time.

“Move along, Pumpkin, you’re getting in the way - Lily, don’t headbutt your sister, there’s a good girl - ” When the last of the goats had been ushered through the gate into the pasture, Newt closed the gate, then leaned over the first rail of the fence, unconsciously smiling as he watched the goats amble around to find good patches of grass.

He felt someone’s eyes on him, and he looked up to see Minho standing a short distance away, watching him with the most curious expression on his face; the familiar dimples were present, accompanying the slight smile on his lips, and his eyes had an unusually soft look to them. As soon as he saw Newt looking back, his smile grew more pronounced.

“You know they can’t understand you, right?” Minho called to him. “They’re goats.”

“I like to think they can get at least something from my tone and inflection,” Newt said, leaning his head sideways. “They’re pretty smart, you know. Kind of like dogs.”

Minho exhaled a laugh and shook his head. “You _would_ make pets out of all the animals you’re supposed to eat.”

Newt ducked his head in embarrassment. “It’s true, I guess. I got too attached to them, so I spoke to Winston, and… no more goat soup.” Minho laughed at him again. “That’s why I stay away from the pigs as much as possible. I don’t want to get attached to them too,” he continued.

“I’m pretty sure Fry would never give up his bacon,” Minho said.

“True,” Newt admitted. “Anyway, I know I’m being silly, I just - ”

“No, it’s not silly,” Minho interrupted him, sounding surprised. “I think it’s kind of cute. You have a very compassionate heart, and you especially love goats, for some reason.”

Newt felt a swell of emotion in his chest, and he couldn’t stop himself from beaming at Minho, even as he jumped to explain himself. “They’re great animals! They’re so smart, and they love to be petted, and they have these adorable fluffy bodies.”

“Their rectangular pupils kind of freak me out,” Minho said.

Newt shrugged. “You get used to it after a while.”

Minho walked up to the fence and leaned against it right next to Newt. “Thanks for letting me tag along today. And sorry I was so slow,” Minho said ruefully. “It probably would have been faster for the three of you to just milk them on your own without wasting time teaching me.”

“It was still fun to have you there, though. I like having you around,” Newt told him, smiling and knocking Minho’s arm gently with his elbow.

“That’s funny, I kind of like having you around too,” Minho replied.

Newt fell silent. Despite himself, he felt the grin slipping from his face. He hated the way his mood could shift so suddenly at times. Everything would be fine, and then one little thing would happen, and he would feel like the world was falling apart. Sometimes he couldn’t even tell what it was that had set him off, he would just feel terrible out of nowhere. He thought he knew what it was this time, though.

Minho had noticed the change. “Hey, what’s up?” he asked, his face clouding with concern. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No, no, it wasn’t you. You’re perfect, as always.” Newt smiled at him. This one felt a bit more strained than the earlier ones, but he managed it. “It’s me, I just get… in a bad mood, sometimes.”

“Why are you in a bad mood?” Minho asked. Newt simultaneously hated and loved the look in his eyes, like he wanted to seek out and solve every one of Newt’s problems. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Newt forced his smile wider, hoping that if he smiled enough, Minho wouldn’t notice the tears gathering in his eyes. “Not really,” he said. “It’ll take care of itself eventually.”

Minho nodded, but he didn’t look entirely convinced. His eyes still had that look.

“Anyway, let’s get going, we’ve got a whole field of potatoes to plant,” Newt said, pushing himself off from the fence to stand up straight. He turned away quickly so he wouldn’t have to see that look on Minho’s face anymore, and strode off in the direction of the gardens without looking back to see if Minho was following.

He was a Runner. He could keep up.

Unsurprisingly, Minho was at his side again only a few seconds later. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said, matching Newt’s pace easily. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

Newt’s shoulders slumped. He couldn’t think of anything to say in response, so he simply continued walking in silence. Minho bumped his arm with his elbow playfully, then looped his arm through Newt’s and continued walking arm in arm with him. Newt slipped a sidelong glance at him and saw Minho watching him, grinning. And just like that, his mood lifted. He wasn’t happy, not exactly, but he felt… at peace.

They reached the gardens without saying anything else, and Newt showed Minho which field he wanted to plant with potatoes. He retrieved a garden hoe for each of them, and they got to work digging the trenches the tubers would go in. It wasn’t particularly strenuous work, but the continuous exertion accumulated, so from time to time they would stop to take a rest and have a quick exchange.

He found himself slowly feeling more like his old self as the day went on. The melancholy came and went, but it was still a marked improvement from the past few weeks. It was so nice to spend the day with Minho; he couldn’t remember the last time they’d spent the whole day together.

Newt felt truly awake for the first time in weeks. Minho had a wonderful way of getting him to laugh without seeming like he was trying, and it felt so wonderful to laugh. It eased the tightness of his chest, the tension in his body; it lifted the crushing darkness, if only for a moment.

Eventually, the conversation turned to the Maze. They could never avoid it, not for long. His eyes were unconsciously drawn to the walls surrounding them; every time his mind wandered even a little bit, when it wandered back he would realise that he was staring at them again. His mind was trapped in its own private maze, and no matter which turns and corridors he took, he always ended up back in the same place.

Newt stood up and leaned sideways on his hoe. Shading his eyes with his hand, he squinted at the ivy-covered wall in the distance. It looked much smaller from so far away.

“Do you know if anyone’s ever tried climbing it?” Newt asked.

“I’ve tried, once or twice, I don’t know if anyone else has,” MInho answered. “There are a few places in the Maze where it’s possible to get to some kind of top surface, but usually those are lower than the surrounding walls, so it doesn’t do much good.”

“What about these walls out here? Could someone climb all the way up, then run along the top or something?”

Minho stared thoughtfully at the wall, pressing his lips together in a thin line. “You would have to be a pretty good climber. I don’t think the ivy goes all the way up anywhere on the wall, and it looks like it would be hard to find hand- and foot-holds otherwise. And that would be a long way to climb. I don’t think I could do it. And even if you could, once you get farther out in the Maze there are big gaps, I don’t think you’d be able to get past them.”

Newt nodded, looked down at the freshly-tilled earth and continued with the rows they were digging. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face and dripped down into the dirt he was tilling. “What’s it like, out there? How far does it go?”

“It goes on a pretty long way,” Minho answered. “A lot of it is pretty similar to the stuff you’ve seen, right around the Glade. But I’ve found a few places really far out that are… weird.”

“Weird how?”

“Well, I haven’t actually explored them much,” Minho admitted. “I know I’ll have to eventually, but they seem kind of dangerous, so I’m being very thorough with the rest of it first before I tackle those.”

Newt nodded again, still focused on the ground. “Makes sense.”

“Are you… do you still think there’s no way out?” Minho asked hesitantly. Neither of them seemed eager to look up at each other. Minho swung his own hoe down, and it landed with a dull thud next to Newt’s, biting into the dark soil. He tugged, and a large clod of dirt broke free.

Newt sucked his lips into his mouth and clamped down on them with his teeth. He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe I was wrong.”

He could have sworn he heard Minho breathe a sigh of relief. “I want to get out of here too,” Minho said quietly. “We all do. And if there is a way out through the Maze, I’ll find it.”

“I know,” Newt told him. “I trust you.”

They didn’t speak again for a while after that. Newt was busy processing the information about the Maze, and Minho seemed intently focused on finishing their task. When they had dug rows across the entire field, they went down the rows, dropping in pieces of potato with eyes sprouting off them, and then filling in the rows again with earth.

It started to rain, but they continued on anyway. It was only a light rain, not enough to soak through their clothing. It dripped into their hair and trickled down their faces and necks.

“It’s been raining a lot more recently,” Minho observed.

“Yeah, I noticed that too,” Newt said. “I asked Alby about it, and he said it was like that when he first got here, but then right around the time I got here it dried up. He thinks there may be a dry season and a wet season, and we’re in the wet season right now.”

“That makes sense,” Minho agreed. “I don’t remember it raining at all for the first several months I was here, but then… I guess it was around the time Joe got here? It started raining a lot more, and now it’s been raining almost every day.”

“Yep,” Newt confirmed. “I think it was about the time Joe arrived that it changed.”

They fell silent again, and the rain petered out, leaving behind a drippy, dewy greenery that seemed to come alive in a new way, the rain refreshing and reinvigorating the plant life in the gardens surrounding them.

Newt took comfort in thinking about the tubers taking root and digging deep, searching for water, and pushing stalks up out of the ground, leaves unfurling to catch the sun. This was why he loved plants; they didn’t care about mazes or Grievers or death or any of it. They got to simply live; their slow, peaceful existence untroubled by anything other than converting sunlight into energy, storing it away, growing taller and taller. Sometimes Newt wished he could be a tree. Then he wouldn’t have to worry about anything.

Soon they had finished planting all the potatoes, and they put their tools away. Newt dusted his hands off on his trousers and wiped the sweat from his brow.

“So, it’s butter time now, right?” Minho said. He looked excited, his eyebrows shooting up in an expression of interest.

“What do you think would be the best way to go about this?” Newt asked, frowning in concentration.

“I don’t know.” Minho shrugged. “You’re the butter expert. I don’t know anything about this stuff, I’m just along for the ride.”

“Unfortunately, most of what I know about making butter is from cows, which doesn’t help us because we only have goats,” Newt said.

“Unless there’s a cow somewhere around here that everyone’s been hiding from me,” Minho added. Newt shot him a look and he clamped his mouth shut dramatically, gesturing for Newt to continue.

“But we’ve been using goat milk for a while, and we noticed that if we don’t use it right away, the cream will separate and rise to the top after a few days, and I was thinking I would try to scoop it off and make butter from it.”

“How do you get butter from cream?” Minho asked. He was starting to seem genuinely fascinated by the process, and Newt felt a warmth spreading in his heart. He liked sharing this with Minho, getting to do the things he liked best with the person he liked best. He wished they could have more days like this.

“So, the only thing I really know about how to make butter is that you take the cream off the milk and churn it,” Newt said. “But we don’t really have anything that I think would work very well as an actual churn, and I don’t feel like trying to make one.” The dimples in Minho’s cheeks were getting deeper with every word he said, and Newt found himself biting back an answering smile. But then a moment later he gave in, because it was a real, genuine smile, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had so many of those in one day. He wanted to cherish each and every one, as long as they lasted. “So I figured I’d just put it in some jars and shake it up. That was the plan, unless you can think of a better idea.”

“I see,” Minho answered. His eyes danced with amusement. “This is a real high-budget operation you got going here.”

“We make do with what we have,” Newt said. He tried to sound indignant, but the effect was somewhat marred by the grin still encompassing his face.

“Are you sure this is even going to work?” Minho asked.

“Only one way to find out.”

Newt showed Minho the storage cellar they had dug months back to store food below ground where it could be kept at slightly lowered temperatures (it wasn’t quite as good as a refrigerator, but it sufficed). He and Frypan had set aside several jars of goat milk about two weeks earlier for this purpose, and he collected them now and brought them out.

Newt and Minho used spoons to scoop the thicker, more viscous cream off the top of the milk and ladle it into separate jars. When they had two jars filled about halfway, they screwed the lids on, each took one and began to shake.

They hadn’t been shaking very long when Newt was suddenly struck with how absurdly funny they must look. Unbidden, a bubble of laughter rose from deep within his belly up through his chest, breaking the surface and popping into a stifled giggle. He looked over at Minho to see him shaking with mirth.

“We look - so fucking - stupid,” Minho gasped out in between bouts of laughter. “Just standing here - shaking jars - up and down.”

“At least it’s a good arm workout,” Newt pointed out. “You run all day, but you don’t get to tone your arm muscles. You wouldn’t want them to be neglected.”

Minho’s mouth dropped open in mock horror. “I can’t believe you just implied that any of my muscles are less than perfection.”

“I don’t know,” Newt said, tilting his head meaningfully. “I was just thinking the other day that your biceps were looking a little thin.”

“Says you, you fucking beanpole!”

“I’m fine with the level of muscle that I have,” Newt responded haughtily. “You’re the one who’s—”

“Who’s what?” Minho challenged. “Don’t act like you’re not extremely impressed with my muscles.”

“You’re the one who’s obsessed with the size of your muscles,” Newt pushed on valiantly.

“Well, you’re the one who just brought it up, so maybe I’m not the one who’s obsessed.”

“I - ” Newt hesitated, realising Minho was right; he _had_ been the one to bring it up.

“Aha!” Minho crowed. “Admit it! You’re the obsessed one. You’re obsessed with my body. You think about it all the time.”

“I do not!” Newt protested.

“You think about it enough to notice if my biceps are ‘looking a little thin’,” Minho pointed out. He looked unbearably smug.

“So _you_ admit that they _are_ looking thin,” Newt argued. He felt like he was trying to fight his way out of a corner he’d been backed into.

“No - I didn’t - ” Minho spluttered, momentarily confused, and Newt seized the opportunity to change the subject before Minho could regroup.

“Look, I think something’s happening,” he said, holding out his jar for Minho’s inspection. “The consistency’s definitely changed.”

“Huh,” Minho looked closely at Newt’s jar, then his own. “Mine still looks the same.” Newt raised his eyebrows and shot Minho a significant look. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, this doesn’t make you better than me,” Minho scoffed. “You just got lucky. Your batch of cream was better than mine or something.”

“Sure, make excuses,” Newt said, shrugging and looking off to the side in exaggerated skepticism.

Minho rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”

Newt unscrewed the lid to his jar and tilted it to inspect the contents more closely. What he saw was not very pleasant: instead of adopting a foamy, whipped consistency as he had expected, the cream had gone all lumpy. It was extremely off-putting.

“I don’t think this is right,” Newt admitted. “I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to make whipped cream first, and then when you keep shaking it the butter separates out. But this is just…” he trailed off.

“Gross,” Minho finished for him.

“Yeah,” Newt agreed. “This can’t be right.”

“What should we do?” Minho asked. “It looks like both of ours were failures.”

“We can just start over from the beginning?” Newt suggested. “Get new batches of cream and try again? I think there’s nothing else for it.”

Minho nodded. “Alright. Butter making, take two.”

They prepared new jars, and got started shaking again. Newt could already feel his forearms burning with exertion. He didn’t know how long he could keep this up, but he wasn’t about to let Minho see him give up first.

After a few minutes, Newt realised that the cream in his jar had indeed become aerated and was now very much like whipped cream. Only a little while later, Newt suddenly heard a wet “kerplop” sound in the jar with every shake, and when he looked he saw a solid mass in the midst of a sea of liquid that was noticeably thinner than the cream had been at the start.

“Look!” he said to Minho excitedly. “I think it worked!”

“Yeah, mine too!” Minho said, waving his jar in front of Newt. Newt could see a similar lump in Minho’s jar.

They poured out the buttermilk, collected the solid butter, and mashed the two lumps together. “That was a lot of work for such a small amount of butter,” Minho commented almost sadly.

“Well, hopefully it’ll go faster next time, now that we know how to do it,” Newt said.

“Do we even know what went wrong the first time?” Minho asked.

“Not exactly,” Newt admitted, “but I think it has to do with the temperature it’s at, or something like that. Anyway, at least now we know it can be done, so it can be done again.”

They had enough jars of milk saved up to do a couple more batches, and then Newt wanted to try Minho’s first batch again, which worked this time (Newt hypothesised that the first time it had been too cold because it was fresh out of the cold cellar, and that the cream needed to be room temperature to make the transformation). Each time, they added another lump of butter to their growing block. When they were finished, the washed the butter in cold water (“We’re going to do what now?” Minho had asked) and squeezed the remaining liquid out of it, before packing it into a wooden mould Newt had prepared earlier.

When they delivered the butter to Frypan, he was ecstatic.

“Thank you so much!” he shouted, looking at the small, hard-earned lump of butter like it was the most precious thing in the world. “I’ve been wanting this for so long! I don’t even know what to make first, there are so many things I could use this for.”

“Just use it sparingly,” Minho grumbled. “It took a lot of shaking to get even that small amount.”

“Don’t worry, I know how valuable this is,” Frypan assured him.

At the end of the day, Newt felt a strong feeling of contentment. He’d had so much fun with Minho, despite the constant ups and downs of his mercurial mood. It had been a wonderful day. It had been a _perfect_ day.

The perfect last day.

_“Any reason you couldn’t split it up and do it on multiple days?” - “No, I have to do it all today.”_

He crossed the last two items off his to-do list: _make sure everyone’s set up with food for a while_ and _figure out how to make butter for Fry._ He wrote a quick list of instructions for making the butter, although now that Minho knew how to do it too, it wasn’t strictly necessary. It was still better to be thorough.

_Even Minho couldn’t fix whatever was wrong with him._

_He wished Minho could have spent the day with him more often, before. He’d missed this. He would miss this._

He had come to the conclusion a while ago, that Minho couldn’t fix him. No one could. He was broken beyond repair. But fuck if he wouldn’t miss Minho. He knew that no matter what, no matter how much time he’d been given, he would always have wanted more time with Minho.

_“That’s funny, I kind of like having you around too.”_

He had never wanted to make Minho unhappy. Knowing that Minho would miss him was almost enough to make him change his mind.

Almost.

Minho wanted what was best for him. This was what was best for him.

_Eventually, the conversation turned to the Maze. They could never avoid it, not for long. His mind was trapped in its own private maze, and no matter which turns and corridors he took, he always ended up back in the same place._

The Maze controlled their entire lives. They could never escape. The Maze would never allow it. He was trapped, both literally and figuratively. As long as he was inside the Maze, he could never be truly happy. The others could cope with the Maze and losing their memories and the constant threat of death, but he couldn’t. Because there was something wrong with him. He was cracked.

_“Do you know if anyone’s ever tried climbing it?”_

He had given this a lot of thought. He had planned out every little detail, from how he wanted to do it, to all the things he needed to make sure he finished before it happened. He was nothing if not prepared.

Still, some things he hadn’t been able to prepare for. Like Minho giving him the most perfect last day he could have ever hoped for. He would always be grateful for that.

_“I know. I trust you.”_

It wasn’t a lie. He did trust Minho.

He just didn’t trust the Creators.

_Sometimes Newt wished he could be a tree._

Newt wrote carefully, scratching his final goodbye onto the rough paper with his clumpy, sticky homemade ink that was only barely functional. _If you can, if you find my body, I want to be buried under the big oak tree, so I can become part of the tree, and a part of me will always be here with you,_ he wrote. He thought of being a tree. Of finally being at peace.

_He wished they could have more days like this._

He could never repay Minho for everything he’d done, and he couldn’t give him any more days like this one, but he could give him this letter. An explanation, of sorts. Closure. _Please don’t be sad for me. This is what I want. I’m sorry I had to leave you, but I’m not sorry to go._

“What are you writing?”

Newt looked up to see Minho watching him with curiosity etched into the lines of his face. Newt smiled softly at him. “A letter,” he answered.

Minho cocked his head. “A letter to who?”

“To you, of course.”

“When do I get to read it?” Minho asked, smiling.

“When I’m ready.”

_Thank you for everything: for being my best friend, for trying so hard to cheer me up, for giving me the perfect day. For trying to find a way out. You must know, it wasn’t that I didn’t believe in you; I always believed in you. But I’m sure now that there is no way out, except for this one._

_Don’t be sad. I’ll finally be free._

The next morning, he saw Minho off as he always did, performing their silly made-up handshake, and if his usual farewell of “See you tonight” stuck in his throat a little, Minho didn’t seem to notice.

He folded his letter up carefully, along with the instructions for making butter and the plans he had drawn up for what to plant in the gardens next. If they followed his plan, they should have enough food for everyone, including all the new Greenies, to last the next year. He hid them under Minho’s pillow, so he wouldn’t find them until that night, after the doors had closed.

Then he went out, walking with calm, purposeful strides across the Glade towards the doors. He saw Jeff on the way, and greeted him cheerfully.

When he reached the opening into the Maze, he looked around briefly to make sure no one was watching. No one was., and he slipped inside unseen.

He remembered a bit of the part closest to the Glade from his early days, when he ran the Maze every third day, trading off with Alby and Gally. He found the section he was looking for easily.

This was where he had decided it should happen. This was the best spot. Out of the way enough that Minho wouldn’t find him on the way home (he was determined that Minho read the letter before discovering him), but near enough that he wouldn’t have to search too far the next day to find his body. Assuming he hadn’t been dragged off by the Grievers, of course.

He chose his climbing spot. He climbed up.

And he let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I know I said I might be able to update more often during the winter holiday, and then that lasted for like two updates lmao. Unfortunately I got really busy in the lab and then I was travelling (hurray discord meetup in London!!!!), and also I figured we had so much new content with the Secret Santa anyway that it would be fine. I didn't mean to leave it quite this long, but either way I'm so happy to be back writing this story again.
> 
> Minor note: the "no more goat soup" line came from the movie The Mummy. I was watching it with some friends and decided to work that line into this fic as a joke, and it kind of just stayed lol.
> 
> And about the ending of this chapter... all I can say is I'm sorry. It had to be done.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A rare Minho POV chapter! This won't happen a lot but will happen occasionally, so hope you like it!
> 
> Still on the sad part though I'm afraid. :(

Minho was very concerned for Newt.

He’d been growing more and more worried about his best friend for some time now. Despite the marked improvement in Newt’s mood yesterday, Minho didn’t think he was out of the woods just yet. But since his plan to cheer Newt up had seemed to be a rousing success, Minho felt safe leaving him alone to run the Maze for a few more days. He did plan on taking a day off more often, so that he could keep an eye on Newt now and then, make sure he was doing okay, get him to laugh if he was being too serious. Minho had definitely seen him smile more yesterday than he had in a long time, at least since Alfred died, and Minho had been able to breathe easy again, knowing Newt was doing so much better.

He had even been toying with the idea of training Justin as a Runner as well; he looked physically fit enough to handle it, and he was curious and energetic enough that Minho thought he might be up for it. If he was, it would mean Minho could alternate days with him, after getting him up to speed on what he’d already discovered so far, of course. And then Minho could spend every other day in the Glade with Newt.

Minho continued running the familiar pathways, trying to refocus on remembering where he was and which turns he had taken. He couldn’t afford to get too distracted, even here, in the areas where he was fairly confident. One wrong move because he let his mind wander, and that could be it. Curtains.

He wasn’t concerned for himself; obviously, given the choice, he’d rather stay alive, but Minho had always had a hard time connecting the risks he took with the abstract concept of his own death. It was hard to fear something you couldn’t really imagine. But Newt was another story. Minho had seen first-hand what Alfred’s death had done to him, and that was someone he’d barely known. If it was someone close to him, his best friend? He’d be devastated. Minho could not, would not, be the one to do that to him.

He shook his head slightly, clearing his thoughts. He was about to enter a less-familiar section, and he needed to concentrate.

Minutes passed, then hours. Newt was still there, in the back of his mind, always. But that was nothing new.

He rounded a corner and saw the opening ahead, just as he had expected. He slowed to a walk, then stopped altogether. A giant number “2” loomed over him, dull paint cracked and peeling on the rough concrete.

He knew he should go through the opening. Explore the section, section 2, whatever that meant. He knew there could be an exit somewhere in there, that these strange, outer sections were the likeliest to have a way out of all the places he’d found (so far he’d found 2, 3 and 5), that he was probably wasting his time exploring all the corridors leading up to them instead of entering the sections themselves. He knew all of that. But still, he couldn’t bring himself to explore them. Not yet. Not until he absolutely had to.

It wasn’t just that the sections were weird, as he’d told Newt yesterday, although that was part of it. They were much more open, exposed, and Minho had gotten so used to the narrow corridors of the areas closer to the Glade; the closeness made him feel safe, protected. The outer sections were littered with unfamiliar structures that looked dangerously capable of movement, and the very walls in those places seemed to shiver with hidden menace, as though they were only waiting for him to step inside before springing to life and swallowing him up forever.

That was certainly part of it. But the thing that he found even more terrifying than all of that, was the knowledge that there might not be a way out in any of them. They could be nothing more than elaborate dead ends. He’d promised Newt that he would find a way out. He didn’t know how to look Newt in the eye and tell him that he’d failed. That he hadn’t been able to keep his promise.

Minho checked the position of the sun; it was just past midday. If he hurried he could be home a little early, and maybe he and Newt could go on a walk or something before dinner. He turned around and went back the way he had come, pushing himself faster and faster, breath searing in his throat, muscles burning. It was a good burn, a sustainable burn. He kept up that pace all the way back to the Glade.

As soon as he was back, his eyes swept over to the gardens, but Newt was nowhere in sight. Maybe he’d already finished for the day and gone back to their hut. Minho headed there next, but saw immediately that Newt wasn’t there. He’d probably gone to do something with the animals; either Minho had missed his silhouette amongst the goats still grazing in their pen, or he’d gone inside the barn. Minho thought about going to seek him out, but then decided to wait for him there. After all, he was tired from running back faster than usual, and it would be nice to get in a quick rest before spending some more quality time with his best friend.

Minho sat on his bed and leaned his hand down on his pillow. When he rested his weight on it, the pillow made an odd crackling sound. Minho frowned in confusion before he realized there was something underneath it: a few folded sheets of paper. Was this the letter Newt had been writing last night? Newt must have left it for him; but why had he hidden the pages under his pillow like that? Minho’s stomach inexplicably clenched in fear, and his pulse shot up, as though part of him had already worked it out a few steps ahead of his conscious mind.

He unfolded the papers with shaking hands, his movements jerky and stiff. His eyes jumped immediately to the first line, underneath a salutation addressed to him.

_This is my way of saying goodbye._

“No,” Minho whispered in horror. “No, Newt, what did you do?” His panicked eyes skittered and skipped down the page, only able to take in a few phrases here and there.

_Thank you for everything: for being my best friend, for trying so hard to cheer me up, for giving me the perfect day._

Minho felt cold. But Newt had been so much happier yesterday. He had thought that meant Newt was doing better. Stupid, stupid. How could he have been so stupid?

_Don’t be sad. I’ll finally be free._

“No, Newt, please,” Minho pleaded quietly, as though his words could change what was written in the note.

_If you can, if you find my body, I want to be buried under the big oak tree, so I can become part of the tree, and a part of me will always be here with you._

Something about that line struck him as odd. “If you can, if you find...” _If._ Why would he write that? Why would they not be able to find his—find him? Unless...

Minho was halfway to the door before he even realized he was standing. The note fluttered to the floor as he crossed the rest of the distance and went outside. His heart hammered in his chest, pulse lurching and uneven, sending shots of adrenaline spiking through his system. His weariness was completely banished, and a single thought filled his mind: he had to get to Newt before the doors closed.

He wasn’t sure what Newt might have done to himself. Maybe it was already too late for him. But Minho would be damned if he was going to let Newt stay out in the Maze all night, alive or not.

And maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe he hadn’t -

Well. Either way. Minho was going to find him, and bring him home.

Minho had never run faster in his life. His mind seemed to have finally caught up with what was happening, and the boundless fear started to build inside him, the pressure threatening to overwhelm him. He had never been out in the Maze this late before. What if he couldn’t find Newt, and he got trapped here overnight? (He wouldn’t even let himself entertain the notion of going back without Newt. That simply wasn’t an option.)

Through his panic, he tried to think where Newt might have gone. Obviously not Minho’s main path, or he would have found him on the way back. Somewhere out of the way, but not too far into the Maze. Newt wanted Minho to bring him back, and he wouldn’t have made Minho drag his… drag him very far. Newt always hated to bother anyone.

The idea of Newt thinking of himself as an inconvenience made Minho’s stomach clench again, and he thought he might throw up. Newt had never been able to see how important he was. And he was out in the Maze right now, thinking that he didn’t matter, maybe even hurting himself, or maybe he’d already… Minho had to find him. Even if it was too late, he had to find him. Newt deserved that much, at least. He ran faster.

When he finally found him, he almost collapsed in surprise. He hadn’t been prepared for the overwhelming feeling of protectiveness that flooded through him at the sight of Newt’s broken, mangled body. All he had wanted in the entire world, more than escaping the Maze, more than getting his memories back, was to keep Newt from getting hurt. And he had failed.

Newt was lying in a heap at the base of one of the walls, a tangle of ivy all around and on top of him. It looked like some of it was wrapped around his right leg too. Had he tried to hang himself with it? Or maybe he’d tried to jump and gotten tangled in it on the way down? It had rained earlier, and a few scant puddles of water surrounded Newt, reflecting the towering walls above as though mocking them.

The last thing Minho wanted to do was go up to the lifeless body of his best friend and determine whether or not he was still alive. It was hard enough seeing him like this; Minho didn’t know what he would do if Newt were - 

Part of him wished he could spend the rest of eternity in this limbo of uncertainty. If he didn’t go check, he could still hold on to his last sliver of hope. But he knew he had to check. He had to know. And he didn’t have much time to stall; the sun was already dangerously low.

Minho approached Newt. Up close, he could see the scrapes and bruises left by the unforgiving concrete. And was it wishful thinking, or could he see the smallest movements up and down of Newt’s chest, showing that he was still breathing? Minho knelt down and leaned over until his ear was directly above Newt’s face and listened, holding his breath, hoping against hope.

There. The faintest, rattling breath. It was so quiet and weak he was afraid it could be snuffed out at any moment, but Minho was sure he had heard it. He straightened up again and put two fingers to the side of Newt’s neck. Yes, there was definitely a pulse. Minho could have cried from relief.

Newt was alive.

But Minho couldn’t enjoy the feeling of relief for long; he had precious little time to get Newt back to safety. The shadows already reached most of the way up the opposite wall, and were climbing higher by the second. They had minutes at most before the doors closed.

Minho didn’t know what kind of injuries Newt might have, but he couldn’t worry about that now. He would just have to take it one step at a time. His first priority was getting Newt to safety; the rest would have to wait until they weren’t in immediate danger. His stomach gave a small lurch at the thought that this might be just a little outside Jeff’s wheelhouse. What if he got Newt all the way back and then he still ended up - 

_One thing at a time,_ Minho reminded himself. They would worry about that when they got there.

Minho pulled out his knife and quickly cut the vines entangling Newt’s leg. Then he leaned over Newt’s still form and began to pull Newt up by the shoulders into a sitting position. He got ready to heave him up, going for a fireman’s carry, when he felt Newt stirring.

“Newt?” he said, leaning back to look at Newt’s face.

Newt’s eyelids fluttered open. He looked dazed; his eyes wandered briefly before focusing on the person in front of him. “Minho?” His voice came out a dry whisper. “You weren’t supposed to find me until tomorrow.” His face clouded with momentary confusion. “It’s not tomorrow, is it?”

Minho didn’t know what to say. His mind cast around for a few seconds before settling on “I found your note.”

“Oh,” Newt said, then gave a long exhale. “I suppose it would be too much to ask that you just leave me here and go back without me?”

Minho wasn’t even going to dignify that with an answer. He helped Newt slowly sit up the rest of the way, then turned around so he was side to side with him and threw Newt’s closest arm around his shoulders. “We’ve gotta get you up, okay?” he said, his voice sounding much more confident than he felt.

“Minho, wait,” Newt gasped. “I don’t think I can stand. My leg…” He gestured vaguely towards the leg that had been twisted in ivy. “It got tangled on the way down. That’s why I’m still…” He paused, and swallowed heavily. “I think it’s broken, I’m sure I heard a pop.”

Minho looked over Newt’s leg. Now that he was looking at it closely, it did look in pretty bad shape. He didn’t know much about anatomy, but he was sure that angle wasn’t natural.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, knowing it was probably a stupid question.

Newt laughed, a single grim syllable. “Everything hurts.”

Minho gingerly tried to adjust Newt’s leg to move it more out of the way, but he had barely touched it and Newt was already wincing in pain. Minho’s heart sank. The leg certainly complicated things.

“I’ll help you stand up. Just… try to put most of your weight on the other one,” Minho suggested. “And you can lean on me, I’ll support you.” He tried not to think about how much farther away the Glade suddenly seemed.

“I’m not sure I’m worth all this,” Newt said quietly. “Minho, you - you don’t have to do this. You can just go, honestly.”

Minho’s eyes stung. He blinked the feeling away. “On three, okay?” he said, facing forward so Newt couldn’t see his face. “One - two - three!”

He stood, pulling Newt up with him, and at the same time Newt pushed himself up with his good leg. The noise he made was somewhere between a growl and a scream. Minho wrapped one arm around Newt’s waist, and the other kept Newt’s arm locked around his shoulders. Newt leaned heavily on him, panting and occasionally taking a sharp breath at what was probably a fresh stab of pain. Minho ached just thinking about how much he must be hurting.

“Ready?” he asked. Newt nodded, face tense and focused, breathing carefully measured. Minho turned him toward the correct end of the corridor, and slowly started moving forwards. Newt leaned on him and hopped alongside on his good leg, grunting in pain each time he landed.

Their pace was agonizingly slow. Minho urged them faster, using his arm around Newt’s waist to push him along. He could hear Newt’s breathing growing more and more ragged, and he wished he could stop and let him have a break, but he was acutely aware of each precious second ticking away. He pushed even faster.

They had only made it what Minho estimated to be a third of the way back to the Glade when Newt’s good leg stumbled, and before Minho fully realized what was happening Newt crashed heavily to the ground, dragging Minho down with him.

Minho struggled to get up quickly while also doing as little damage to Newt’s sprawling limbs as possible. He heard Newt groaning as he braced himself against the ground. Minho wanted to give him a second to collect himself, but they had to get going again as soon as possible. He grabbed Newt’s arm and made ready to pull him up.

“You’re going to have to leave me, Min,” Newt rasped. He sounded strangely calm, given the direness of their situation. “You’ll be able to go so much faster without me acting as dead weight.”

Minho wanted to snap at him not to be stupid, of course he wasn’t leaving him, but then he glanced down at Newt and saw the look on his face. He didn’t look sad or scared; his expression held only concern for Minho himself, and Minho realized Newt truly didn’t believe he was worth saving. It broke Minho’s heart.

“You just hang on, you hear me?” Minho surprised himself with how gentle he sounded, when part of him wanted to scream at Newt, yell at him to stop wasting time when every second was vital. To stop acting like there was any universe where Minho could ever leave Newt behind.

Minho slid one hand behind Newt’s head, cradling it as his other hand went around Newt’s back and supported him up into a sitting position. He put Newt’s arm back around his shoulder. “On three, okay?” Newt nodded in resignation, and Minho continued, “One, two, three!” On the final word he stood, hoisting Newt with him.

They were making slow but steady progress. Minho had started to believe they might actually make it. They were so close, they just had a few more turns to make before the entrance to the Glade, but they had so little time, and Minho’s heart was beating so loud he could hear the blood rushing in his ears, and his vision was going fuzzy, but he had to get Newt out, he _had_ to, so he pushed them just a little faster and then -

Newt tripped again. This time Minho saw it coming in time to stop himself falling too, but he could only catch Newt and half-guide him to the floor. Newt groaned in pain; this one wasn’t as sharp as the others. More than anything he sounded tired.

“I got you,” Minho said, kneeling down to support Newt and help him back up. 

Newt was crying, the tears running tracks in the dirt smudged on his face. “I can’t go any farther Min, I’m sorry. It hurts too much. Please just leave me. I can’t stand thinking I’ve doomed you too.” He paused, took a shaky breath and wiped his cheek, smearing the dirt even more. Then he looked directly at Minho, seeming to calm slightly, as he said in a frighteningly quiet voice, “Please, Minho. Please just go.”

Minho didn’t know what to say. When was Newt going to get it into his head that Minho wasn’t going anywhere? He had to get him moving again; Minho had lost track of time but he knew they were walking the razor's edge.

“Come on, Newt,” he said quietly, he hoped encouragingly, as he tugged Newt’s arm back around his shoulders. “Ready?”

Newt set his jaw. Minho could see the muscle in the side of his cheek twitching as it clenched. Newt exhaled quickly through his nose, three times, then nodded. They stood up.

Newt was screaming. Screaming in frustration, in agony, but in determination, too, and as if the scream gave him strength, he lifted himself up again, teeth bared and face tense. Just standing up took so much out of him, Minho wondered how they would ever make it back. But they were so close. They had to make it.

An idea occurred to him. He pulled Newt’s body tighter against his side, using his hip to lift Newt up a little, just enough to take some of the pressure off his leg. Newt didn’t fight it, and allowed Minho to take his weight. Minho turned his head to face Newt; his cheek was practically touching Newt’s.

“Do you think you can make it through the next fifteen seconds?” he asked him. Once again his voice came out surprisingly gentle; but then, they were so close together, Minho was speaking much more quietly than normal.

Newt’s eyes locked onto his, and the scared hope in them was enough to make Minho’s heart twinge with sadness. “I think so,” he answered tremulously. “Just fifteen seconds?”

“Yeah, you can do anything for fifteen seconds, right?” Minho said. “So just count with me, and we’ll get through the next fifteen seconds, and after that we’ll worry about the next fifteen seconds, ok?”

“Ok,” Newt nodded, his voice slightly stronger this time. He clenched his jaw, and his brow furrowed in fierce concentration.

“Alright. Here we go.” Minho took a deep breath. “One - ” He started forwards again, pulling Newt with him.

“Two - ” Newt continued.

“Three.”

“Four.”

“Five.”

On and on they went, until they had reached fifteen at least half a dozen times, and Newt’s voice uttering the count was strained thin and punctuated with muted whines in the back of his throat. Minho could tell Newt was trying to keep the true extent of his misery from him, and he wished with all his might that he could bear Newt’s pain for him, but all he could do was keep dragging him forward.

And to tell the truth, the counting wasn’t just for Newt. It helped Minho too; it helped to keep him from panicking and trying to push Newt faster than he could go. He knew it was his fault Newt had fallen down, both times, because he kept trying to push him too fast. As terrifying as it was, it was better to keep a slower pace. They lost more time every time Newt fell, not to mention the toll it was probably taking on Newt’s bad leg and whatever other hidden injuries he had.

Even worse than knowing Newt was in pain and there was nothing he could do about it, was knowing Minho was making Newt’s pain worse. He hated himself for it. But all he could do now was get Newt back to the Glade, back to safety, without hurting him any more.

They rounded the final corner, still counting to fifteen, and Minho felt relief punch through him when he saw the doors were still open. A part of him had been terrified that they’d already closed and he hadn’t realized it. They still had time. Just a few yards more.

“Almost there,” Minho panted in Newt’s ear. He shifted his hip to hold Newt even more securely onto his side, and heard Newt utter a small grunt of pain. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But we’re almost there. Just hang on, ok? Just hang on a little longer.”

Newt whimpered softly, but Minho could feel him nodding his head and he strode relentlessly forward.

Minho all but carried Newt the remaining distance, and the third time they fell, they were met by the more forgiving surface of dirt and grass.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still a ways to go before it gets better :/ sorry

Newt heard voices, arguing. He was trapped in some strange dimension, some _other,_ in-between place. He fought to open his eyes, but it was as though a powerful force held them closed. He could hear Minho’s voice, and another that he thought must be Jeff.

They were talking about him. Newt managed to wrench his eyes open for a few seconds, and saw Minho and Jeff standing over him, Jeff wearing a look of sheer terror, Minho one of fierce determination, before the heaviness of his eyelids forced them closed again.

The last few hours had been something out of a nightmare, and it wasn’t over yet. He’d been in and out of awareness, and he seemed to be having trouble remembering the order different events had happened in, but he did know certain things. He remembered jumping, and his leg getting hurt. He hadn’t died. Minho had found him.

_Minho._ He could recall bits and flashes of that awful return journey, but one detail stuck out in his mind more than any other: Minho had been so angry. Listening to the sound of his voice, Minho was _still_ angry. Newt had seen Minho angry before, but never at him. It hurt something inside of him to think about it.

_Minho was furious with him._ Because of what he’d done. But Minho had still stayed with him, refused to leave him, helped him back to the Glade. He was still with him, even now.

Feeling as though he were fighting his way out from under an avalanche, Newt dragged himself back to reality, not enough to open his eyes again, but enough to catch a few snatches of the conversation between Minho and Jeff. Well, really, conversation was too polite a word for it.

“You have to! There’s no one else!” Minho was saying heatedly.

“But I have no idea what to do! I’ve never done anything like this before!” Even with his eyes closed, Newt could practically see Jeff pacing in a panic. He probably had his hands clutched to his face; he did that sometimes when he was especially nervous.

_“You’re the fucking Med-jack!”_ Minho roared. “You have to do something, you can’t just let him lie there!”

“I put aloe on burns and bandage cuts!” Jeff shouted back. “Why don’t you go ask Gally to build a fucking skyscraper? _I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing!_ ”

Minho sounded furious. He knew Minho well enough to know that he wasn’t really upset with Jeff; but Jeff had no way of knowing that, and Newt was in no position at the moment to tell him. _He’s not angry with you, he’s angry with me,_ Newt thought at Jeff desperately. He hoped Jeff wouldn’t hold a grudge against Minho because of this.

Newt struggled to open his eyes again. He could manage to get them open a crack, and light flooded into the world of darkness in which he was trapped. He thought he caught a glimpse of Minho pinching the bridge of his nose and taking several deep breaths.

“I’m sorry,” he said, more quietly now, “but we just don’t have any other choice. We have to do something. We have to try.”

“What if I make it worse?” Jeff’s voice sounded small, plaintive.

“I don’t think there’s much chance of that, to be fucking honest,” Minho answered, a humourless laugh chasing his words.

The image of Minho morphed into someone else, someone he didn’t recognise. He couldn’t see their face, but they were wearing all white. Maybe they were an angel. _Really?_ Newt thought in surprise. _Huh. So I was wrong after all._

The person turned and walked away from him, and he realised he was sitting on a train. The air felt uncomfortably hot, like they were near a raging fire, and Newt thought he could see ashes floating in the air. The train was full of young children, and somehow Newt knew without seeing himself that he was younger as well. The figure in white knelt next to a dark-haired boy and spoke to him, so quietly that Newt couldn’t make out the words.

Newt looked to his side. There was a blond girl sat next to him. Newt thought she looked familiar, but he couldn’t quite place her.

Then the train started filling up with water. Soon it was over his head, and he couldn’t breathe. He started panicking, struggling to swim up, fighting for breath, even though the non-panicked part of his mind screamed at him that breathing underwater would only make him drown faster. He couldn’t see any of the other children, or even the train for that matter; all he could do was try to swim up, to where he saw a faint light glowing.

His head broke the surface. He was in a lake, surrounded by mountains. There were other people there, not the children from the train, but older people. Dimly, Newt wondered what had happened to the children, if they were alright, if they’d made it off the train, but after a while he forgot about them completely.

He saw Minho swimming near him, and he kicked his way slowly towards him. But when Minho turned to face him, his face was contorted with rage.

“I hate you,” he spat at Newt. Newt stopped swimming towards him. “I hate you so much. You’re so fucking stupid. I can’t believe I was ever friends with you.”

Newt’s eyes welled up with tears. “Minho, I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean for it to happen like this, I swear - ”

“Shut up! Shut _up_!” Minho screamed at him. “Don’t ever talk to me again! If I ever see your stupid face near me I’ll feed you to the Grievers!”

“Minho,” Newt said again, his voice barely more than a faded whisper. “Minho, please - ”

_“Fuck off!”_ Minho turned and swam away from him as fast as he could. Newt didn’t try to follow. Instead he allowed himself to float gently on his back, and the tears in his eyes flowed down the sides of his face. His body floated peacefully, disturbed only by the sobs shaking through him in waves.

Suddenly his eyes opened. He was still on his back, and the tears were real, but he was once again in the Med-jack tent with Jeff and Minho. His leg burned, and every now and again someone would touch it and send sharp waves of agony sluicing through him. He’d never felt pain like this before. It was unendurable. He half-screamed, half-groaned through gritted teeth, the sound harsh and guttural, breathing heavily as he clenched his fists and tried to think of something else, anything else.

“Newt?” Minho’s voice cut through the haze of pain. He appeared at Newt’s side, and Newt thought he felt a light touch on his forehead, sweeping aside his damp, matted hair. “Newt, can you hear me? Just hang on, ok? I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

Newt turned his head ever-so-slightly to the side to look at Minho. His fevered eyes found Minho’s, and with them he tried to apologise, to say everything he couldn’t say out loud. He didn’t know why Minho was sorry; he had done nothing wrong. Newt was the one who should be sorry. He had put Minho in danger from trying to save him, he had made both him and Jeff worry and panic, he had inconvenienced everyone.

Newt felt the darkness rise up to swallow him once more. He went gladly.

If he’d thought the strange other dimension would offer him some relief, he was sorely mistaken. Blobs of colour materialised into shapes, into creatures, flying about and laughing at him, tormenting him. They poked and prodded him with sharp sticks, sometimes they threw rocks at him. His leg ached; not the same sharp pain as before, but equally as potent. He lifted his head up enough to see it, then gasped and slumped back down, horrified.

The creatures had his leg in a press. One of them cranked the handle, and the press tightened, and his leg throbbed. Newt groaned, and the creatures flew around his head, giggling and jittering.

He was in Hell. Literal Hell.

Newt tried to scream, but he seemed to have gone mute. The soundless cry of terror clawed and scratched at his throat, but he couldn’t make more than a harsh grating noise. Distantly, he heard the tortured wails of other people, and he wondered who they were. They sounded awful, haunting.

Everything hurt. There was no relief anywhere. More tears trickled down the sides of his face, dripping into his ears. One of the demons flew past his head and tried to poke him in the eye. He yelped and turned his face away.

He saw that he was in some kind of cave, surrounded by rock walls. He wondered if he could sit up. There didn’t seem to be anything holding him down, so he tried. With monumental effort, he managed to pull himself up into a sitting position. In his feverish, panicked mind, only one thing mattered: getting his leg out of the press.

Demons flew around his head, chattering angrily and taking swipes at him, but he batted them away and leaned for the handle of the press. The demon there squawked and bit his hand, but Newt shook him off, the sting of the bite in his fingers hardly making a difference to his overall pain level. He leaned again, but he could only just reach the handle of the press with his fingertips. He scrabbled at it desperately. He would have howled in frustration, but he still couldn’t make a sound.

Finally his fingers found purchase, and he managed to loosen the press just a bit. After that it went easier, and he was able to fumble with the handle enough to lift the press a few inches and pull his leg out. He lifted it carefully, gingerly, and swiveled around slowly so that he was sitting with his other leg dangling off the edge of the raised platform he had been lying on, holding his injured leg out in front of him.

He held his leg tightly, above the knee, as if he could squeeze the pain out of it. He had hoped it would stop hurting once he got it out of the press, but no such luck. His leg was mangled almost beyond recognition, a pulpy, bloody mess that made him sick to his stomach to look at. He looked up at the cave wall instead, but the image was already burned into his brain.

He realised he could hear a roaring noise, and that it was growing steadily louder. Newt didn’t want to know what was making that noise, or to be here when it arrived. He pushed himself up onto his good leg and felt along the cave wall for any opening, moving in short, painful hops and dragging his ruined leg behind him.

He felt a fissure in the wall, a small gap that his hands blindly felt into. He couldn’t feel the back of it, so maybe it kept going. He wormed his way inside. He had to go sideways to fit, which was even harder on his injured leg, but he managed to brace himself against the rocky wall and shuffle his good leg forward before standing on it again.

The rough surface of the wall scraped his fingertips and palms raw, but he kept limping forward, bit by bit. The fissure kept going, deeper and deeper into the rock wall. The roaring noise had continued to get louder, but Newt thought he was leaving it behind the farther he got from the torture chamber.

Suddenly there was a terrible rumbling and shaking, the very ground beneath him convulsing with tremors, the rough stone walls pressing in on him. He tried to move, but he was trapped. Terror rising, he beat his hands on the rocks, an unreleased scream ripping him apart. Rocks fell from above, crashing all around him, and he put his arms over his head to shield himself.

When the chaos was over,he was all but buried in rubble. Dirt and dust particles floated in the air, sticking in his throat and making him cough.

He couldn’t move. He struggled wildly against the surrounding debris, pushing against the rocks weighing him down. At first his thrashing made no difference; the rocks barely shifted, and he felt panic closing around his throat until he felt like he was breathing through a straw.

Then something changed; the rocks began to shift and fall away beneath his clawing hands. Newt grimaced, focusing on pushing the rocks and dirt away instead of on the way they crowded him on all sides and held him trapped in a narrow rock fissure. Slowly, he grappled a space above him, and managed to drag himself out of his erstwhile tomb, hauling himself by the arms up and up and up, until finally he felt cool, fresh air against his skin.

When he was entirely free of his earthy prison, he collapsed on the ground and lay there panting, looking up at the sky. It took him a few seconds to register the stars shining. He tried to find the constellations Minho had shown him that night, so long ago now, but their configurations seemed to be random and unfamiliar. He couldn’t recognise anything.

“Newt?”

He sat up and looked around at the sound of his own name. Minho was standing there, his expression inscrutable. “Minho?” Newt said.

“Come on. We have to leave,” Minho told him. “Everyone’s been waiting on you.”

“Who - ” Newt started to ask, but then he realised the others were all there, Alby, Gally, Winston, Frypan, Henry, Jeff, everyone. They looked impatient.

Minho crossed his arms. “We have to go now,” he said.

“Okay,” Newt replied. It wasn’t until he stood up that he realised his leg was completely fine. It was as if his ordeal in the strange underground chamber had never happened.

One by one the others took off running, then leapt into the air. Instead of falling back to earth, they stayed suspended, and flew forward, propelled by some invisible force.

Minho was the last to go. “Come on, Newt,” he said. Newt followed him uncertainly, but when Minho started running and jumped into the air, still Newt stayed with him, and found that he was able to remain suspended above the ground as well.

“We have to go faster,” Minho told him. “They’re leaving us behind. You have to go faster.” He flew ahead of Newt, accelerating to catch up with the others. Newt tried to keep up, but there seemed to be some aerodynamic force dragging him back. Try as he might, he couldn’t stay even with Minho. He fell farther and farther behind.

Minho looked back at him, still flying rapidly after the others. “If you don’t go faster, it will get you.”

As he spoke, Newt had the inescapable feeling that something huge and terrible was chasing after him. He was too terrified to turn and look behind him, but he sensed a malevolent presence, and it was coming for him. It was coming for him.

The more he thought about it, the more he slowed down, and the lower he flew. He was losing altitude quickly. Soon he would be back on the ground. He started to call out to Minho, ask him to come back, but the name froze on his lips. If he called Minho back, he could get caught by whatever was chasing them too. Maybe it would be better to sacrifice himself, and let Minho and the others get away.

His feet touched the ground, and he pushed off again as hard as he could. He bounded through the air, his trajectory taking him over treetops, and then slowly back to earth, landing lightly and easily. He pushed off again.

He kept moving in this strange, half-jumping, half-flying fashion until Minho and the others were so far ahead he could no longer see them. He was alone, save for the evil presence still chasing him. He could feel it behind him, gaining ground all the time, coming closer and closer. Sometimes he fancied he could hear it, the flapping of great wings or the swishing of an enormous body moving past a gentle wind. His fear knew no bounds. He didn’t know what would happen when it caught him, but he knew it wouldn’t be good.

Finally he couldn’t stand it anymore, and he turned to look behind him. A gigantic creature enshrouded in shadows was directly behind him, nearly upon him. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling his stomach drop as he fell back to earth faster than usual.

When he opened his eyes again, he was back in the Med-jack tent. Minho was sitting by his side, head bowed. He couldn’t see Jeff anywhere.

“Minho?” Newt whispered, the sound barely escaping his lips. “Is it over?”

Minho’s head shot up. “Newt!” he said, the unmistakable look of relief written all over his face. He gently took Newt’s closest hand in his. “Yeah, it’s over. It’s over now. You can just rest.” Newt’s hand was enveloped in warmth, surrounded by both of Minho’s. Minho grasped his hand tightly, as though he were afraid Newt would slip away. He lowered his head again, touching his forehead to their clasped hands. The bit of Newt’s fingers that were poking out from between Minho’s hands lightly brushed Minho’s face.

“You…” Newt paused. His entire body felt heavy, and his brain was having difficulty connecting one thought to the other. “You’re not angry with me?”

Minho closed his eyes. If Newt didn’t know any better, he would have thought Minho were barely holding back tears. “No, Newt,” Minho said, opening his eyes again and releasing one of his hands from holding Newt’s to reach up and brush the hair from Newt’s forehead. The move seemed practiced, like Minho had done it several times before. “Of course I’m not angry with you. I was never angry with you, I was just… scared.” Newt saw him swallow. “I was terrified of losing you.”

Newt blinked, not really comprehending. He let his head lay back and looked up at the canvas ceiling. He was so tired, but he was afraid if he closed his eyes he’d return to that horrifying other dimension.

As if he could read Newt’s mind, Minho spoke. “It’s okay. Go to sleep. I’ll be here, I’ll make sure nothing happens to you, okay?”

Newt nodded, already closing his eyes and descending. With Minho watching over him, nothing bad could happen.

This time, when he slipped into the darkness, he remembered nothing, his mind filled with blissful emptiness.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a short one, sorry, but I'll try to post the next one soon to make up for it. Also still on the sad side :/ but we're getting there.

Newt opened his eyes. It took him a moment to realise where he was; the light looked wrong somehow, and then he noticed the canvas flaps of the med-jack tent rather than the familiar, rough stick-and-mud walls of his hut.

Newt blinked slowly, then rubbed the sleep out of his eyes with the back of his hand. Judging by the light slanting into the tent through the gaps in the canvas, it was early morning, meaning he’d somehow managed to sleep through the night. Memories started filtering back to him slowly, and he took a few moments to separate out what was real from what had been a pain-induced nightmare.

Minho finding him and half-carrying him to safety? Yes. That had really happened.

The underground torture chamber? No, nightmare. Same with the train. It wasn’t real.

Some things were less easy to tell. Minho’s anger? Some of that had been in the nightmares, but Newt would swear some of it was real. The yelling at Jeff part certainly seemed real. He also dimly remembered a brief conversation with Minho after, and Minho hadn’t seemed angry at all then. But he doubted his own mind too much to know for sure.

He sat up slowly, turning to one side, and that was when he finally noticed Minho, asleep leaning up against one of the support posts in the corner. It couldn’t have been a comfortable way to sleep at all; his head lolled at an awkward angle and Newt was sure he’d wake up with a crick in his neck.

Almost as if he’d heard Newt’s thoughts, Minho began to stir, his head rocking to the other side as he groaned softly. His eyes opened gradually, and one hand reached up to rub his neck while he sat up fully.

His eyes landed on Newt, alert and sitting up. “Oh, you’re awake,” he said, sounding surprised.

Newt reluctantly made eye contact. “Yeah. I just woke up a few seconds ago.”

Neither of them seemed sure what to say. Minho shifted uncomfortably, unfolding his legs from their cramped position. He winced slightly as the dormant muscles stretched.

“You could have slept in a bed,” Newt said quietly.

Minho looked at him, expression unreadable. “I didn’t want to leave you.” Newt accepted that without comment and looked down at his sheets.

The silence stretched between them. Newt couldn’t even bring himself to look up at Minho again, but he could feel Minho’s gaze on him, burning into him.

Finally he spoke. “I’m sorry.” Recent sleep made his voice come out a strained whisper, and it cracked on the words. He felt like crying again, but his eyes were too dry. He must have spent all his tears yesterday.

Minho said nothing for several long seconds, and eventually Newt chanced a glance up at him. Minho was still watching him, a curiously intent look on his face. “What are you sorry for?” he asked.

_What am I sorry for?_ What kind of question was that? Newt looked down at his lap again and shrugged. His hands fidgeted restlessly, and he picked at the seams of the sheets and at the skin between his fingers.

“You know, if you can’t say what you’re sorry for, it’s not a real apology,” Minho told him. His voice sounded casual on the surface, but Newt heard the undercurrent of frigidity, and understood the implied condemnation. A heavy certainty settled over him, and his heart dropped like a stone; he was sad, but not surprised. He had been right, Minho _was_ angry with him.

Newt took a steadying breath. “I’m sorry for putting you in danger.”

Minho shook his head. “Nope. Try again. I put myself in danger. I chose to go after you, knowing the risks.”

A lump was rising in Newt’s throat, and he swallowed around it painfully. “Do we have to do this right now?” he muttered. He kept picking at the skin of his hands, fingernails digging in deeper.

Minho sighed. “You don’t have to apologise at all. But if you’re going to apologise, you should say what you’re sorry for.”

Newt refused to look up. He kept picking, digging his fingernails in until he thought he might break skin.

Minho stood up, but only to sit in the chair near Newt’s bedside. He scooted closer to Newt, then sat waiting in silence. Maybe he was waiting for Newt to say something, or acknowledge him at all. If so, he would be waiting a long time.

Minho was the first to break the silence. “We don’t have to talk about what happened right now, if you’re not ready. But I need to know that you’re not going to do it again. I need to know that I can leave you alone without worrying every second that I’m going to come back to another note and your - ” Minho’s voice caught, and that was what made Newt finally look up.

To his surprise, Minho almost looked close to tears. Newt finally gave in. “I know you’re angry with me,” he said softly, voice cracking again, “but I can’t - I don’t think I can promise anything. I’m sorry.” The apology came out before he realised what he’d said, and he bit down on the words but it was already too late to stop them.

Minho sighed again, and when he spoke he looked tired beyond his years. “I’m not angry with you.”

“Yes, you are,” Newt challenged. “Don’t lie.” His voice was stronger than it had been all morning, and the beginnings of something other than despair stirred in his chest. He refused to be afraid of Minho’s ire; he was going to face this head-on. If Minho was going to abandon him, better to get it over with.

“No, I’m not! Don’t tell me how I’m feeling!” Minho snapped. Then he frowned. “Ok, fine,” he huffed, “Maybe I’m a little angry. But not at you, at…” he waved vaguely at the air around him. “At this situation. I don’t know what to do, and I don’t like that. But I’m not angry at you.” In his words, Newt heard the echo of previous words. _Of course I’m not angry with you. I was never angry with you._ He felt the first inkling of doubt.

“You’re not?” he said uncertainly. “Because it sure seems like you are.”

Minho met his eye steadily. “I’m not,” he said. “I promise.”

Newt looked down again. He fiddled with the edge of the sheets, letting his fingernails catch in the large, uneven stitches. “I’m sorry,” he said slowly, “for making you worry.”

“You’re trying your best to make me into a liar, aren’t you?” Minho asked, sounding half-amused. “I don’t want you to be sorry. I’m not trying to make you feel worse than you already feel. I know this isn’t really your fault. I just…” his voice cut off, and Newt saw out of the corner of his eye Minho scrubbing his face with his hands. “I need to know that you’re not going to do it again,” he repeated finally.

Newt thought for a moment. He was confused; one second Minho seemed annoyed with his inadequate apologies and the next second he was saying what happened wasn’t Newt’s fault. _Of course it’s my fault. I’m cracked. I’m the one who did it. I caused this situation that’s making him so upset._ He knew what kind of assurance Minho was looking for, and he didn’t think he could give it to him. But he had to give him something. Newt could tell Minho wouldn’t give up easily, and he didn’t have the energy for a real fight. He also couldn’t lie; Minho was his best friend, and he wouldn’t do that to him. He had already hurt him enough. He’d better give Minho just enough to satisfy him, and no more.

He remembered what Minho said about coming back to another note, and latched onto it, hoping it would be enough. “What if we make a deal,” he said, voice measured and careful. “You promise to trust me, and I promise not to write you any more letters.”

Minho exhaled, shoulders visibly relaxing. “You can write me letters,” he conceded. “Just no more goodbye letters.”

Newt grimaced. Apparently it had worked. “Deal.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another rough one unfortunately :/ but the light's at the end of the tunnel, we're almost to the happy part again.

Newt didn’t see Justin and Minho run into the Maze that morning, but he knew they must have left early because Minho didn’t stop by to see him before leaving. Or if he had, Newt had still been asleep. Newt had stopped seeing Minho off in the morning, since he couldn’t get out of bed.

He had barely spoken to Minho since waking up the morning after the Incident. Minho came by to see him at least once a day for a few minutes, but Newt didn’t know what to say to him, and Minho didn’t seem keen to offer any easy topics of conversation. Or any topics of conversation, for that matter. Things felt delicate between them in a way Newt wasn’t used to and didn’t much care for. He was afraid Minho would try to get him to talk about the Incident, but he wanted to put that uncomfortable conversation off for as long as possible. He wished they could just go back to the easy way they had always been with each other, before.

For the last few days, Justin had been Minho’s trainee Runner. They (Minho and Justin) had decided it would be safer for them to stick together for now, and Newt didn’t think they had any plans to change that any time soon. He wondered if Minho talked to Justin while they were out running together, or if the stony silence carried over there as well.

Newt had spent the past few days in the same bed in the med-jack tent, bored out of his mind but forbidden by Jeff from leaving. To relieve some of the mind-numbing boredom, he had taken to drawing little sketches on any spare scraps of paper he could find. Sometimes Jeff brought him used pieces of paper, leftovers with lists of used up inventory on them or old accounts of injuries that he had decided he didn’t need anymore.

Though they were sometimes sent paper up with the supplies, they never had much, so they used it sparingly, but no one seemed to begrudge Newt these little scraps. However, they were never sent anything to write with. Newt and some of the others had cobbled together a homemade ink, but it didn’t work particularly well for drawing, so instead he used bits of coal from the fireplace. He liked it; he liked the texture it brought to his drawings, and he liked the smudges it left behind on his fingers. It made him feel slightly less like he was disappearing into a void, dwindling to nothing.

None of his drawings were very good, but that didn’t really matter. It gave him something to think about besides the crushing, debilitating question of what happened next. _What the fuck was he supposed to do next?_ Who cares? Don’t think about it. Here’s a picture of a wild daisy.

But this morning, Newt was interrupted from his compulsive drawing by Alby.

“New Greenie today,” Alby said, trying too hard to sound casual. “You want to be there to greet them?”

 _That was today?_ He must have really lost track of the days. Newt looked down at the sketch he was currently working on, and added a few broad, sweeping strokes. “Have you asked my jailer if I’m allowed?” he asked, still looking down at the drawing.

“Ha ha,” Alby answered drily. “Well, he’s not too happy about it, but we agreed you need to move around at least a little every day. He’s also willing to let you go back to your own bed instead of staying here.”

Newt decided to ignore that second part. He wasn’t ready to think about that yet. “How would I even get there? I can’t exactly hop on one leg all the way to the Box.”

“You could lean on my shoulder to make walking easier,” Alby offered. “Or I could carry you, if you want.”

Newt didn’t want to say how much he hated that idea; Alby was only trying to help. But lately, Newt seemed to be annoyed by everyone and everything, doubly so if they were trying to help. He let out a discontented sigh instead of answering.

“Well, it’s that or stay here doing nothing,” Alby told him.

Newt considered. “Pass,” he said, then flipped the piece of paper over and began a new drawing.

Alby’s calm facade cracked, and a bit of impatience slipped through. “Come on, Newt. You can’t stay in here forever. And you used to love taking care of the newbies.”

Newt smiled bitterly, and a grim sort of satisfaction curled in his stomach. It looked like the petulant side of him was winning out today. “Jeff’s a lot more patient than you,” he remarked. “It takes me ages and ages to crack him, but I got you in about thirty seconds. You might want to work on that.”

Alby frowned and shifted his weight. “What’s wrong with you?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Newt answered airily, going back to his drawing. “If you figure it out, you let me know.”

“Newt, you haven’t been acting like yourself, ever since - ”

“Not acting like myself?” Newt said, cutting Alby off before he could bring up the Incident. Newt wasn’t sure how much he knew; he didn’t think Minho had told anyone anything, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t worked it out for themselves. “Huh,” he laughed, a single syllable that held no amusement. “That’s funny.”

“Why is that funny?” Alby asked. Newt could see him working extra hard to sound patient. It almost made Newt feel bad about what he’d said earlier.

“Well, for all we know, this _is_ acting like myself. We don’t know what I was like before I got here. Maybe this is exactly what I was like. Or maybe I was even worse.”

Alby shook his head. “That’s dumb. That sounds like an excuse to be a dick and claim you can’t help it because that’s just the way you are.”

Another spike of irritation surged through Newt. Why did Alby have to be so infuriatingly reasonable? “Fine, I’ll go,” he snapped. “But I don’t want to be carried, that’s humiliating.”

“That’s fine,” Alby said, happy again now that Newt had given in. “You know, maybe we should ask Gally or one of the other builders to make you some crutches or something.”

“Let’s just wait and see how this goes before we start commissioning crutches,” Newt grumbled. He felt determined to be in a bad mood. He’d told Alby he would go, but he never said he’d be pleasant about it.

Leaning on Alby’s shoulder, Newt limped and hopped his way to the Box where most of the boys were already gathered. He started to look for Minho before he remembered that Minho and Justin had already left. Minho didn’t care to see the Greenies as soon as they came up in the Box anymore, it seemed. Newt didn’t know why that thought made him feel so hollow inside.

When they were nearly to the Box, the alarm started going off, and they could hear the mechanical grinding from deep in the box hole that meant the otherworldly ferry was on its way to deliver another victim to this nightmarish purgatory.

Newt was torn from these self-indulgent, melodramatic thoughts by the realisation that Alby might be expecting him to fill the role he had, up until now, taken by introducing the newbies to the Glade and explaining about the Maze and their situation. For some reason it hadn’t occurred to him until now, but he had no idea if Alby had any kind of plan as for who should take his place, or if he had even thought of getting someone to take his place.

“Alby, he said tentatively, “I’m not - you know I can’t go down in the Box, right? Who’s going to introduce the Greenie?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Alby told him, unexpectedly confident. “I got this one.”

The last time Alby had introduced a newbie had been Newt himself, but Newt didn’t think now was a good time to point that out. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yeah, don’t worry about it,” Alby said again, and Newt barely resisted the urge to scowl at him.

The Box finally arrived, and without a hitch Alby left Newt to balance on his good leg while he jumped down inside and greeted the newbie. It went rather well, all things considered, with only a few minor hiccups as Alby stumbled over the explanation script. Newt was unexpectedly thrown back into the memory of his own first attempt at introducing a Greenie, with Minho.

He suddenly felt lost and terribly small. That seemed like such a long time ago, now. Alby had come a long way, and Newt was happy for him, but now that Alby had filled his role so easily, he had no idea where he belonged, and it felt like being tossed about in a storm, untethered and uncertain. Newt was miles away from where he’d been, too, but he couldn’t see in himself the same growth that was so obvious in Alby. Newt had only decayed and crumbled, until he didn’t even know who he was anymore.

 _This is stupid,_ a voice inside him said. _You didn’t even want to come and now you’re pouting because Alby didn’t need you. You’re pathetic and selfish._

Since the last Greenie died (a fact that they did not mention to the new one) and Justin was out running, Joe was assigned to be the new Greenie’s buddy and help him get settled in, while Alby took him around on the typical first day tour. Unable to keep up, and feeling rather unfairly abandoned, Newt refused to ask for help and stubbornly hopped his way back to the med-jack tent. His own hut was closer, but he didn’t think he could face going back there yet, even without Minho there.

Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, depending on how he looked at it, Jeff noticed his plight and came to help him, so he didn’t inevitably fall over and hurt himself even more. Jeff let him lean on his shoulder and thankfully didn’t try to talk to him until they were back in the tent, Newt sitting on his bed once again.

“How’s the leg?” Jeff asked him. “I wasn’t going to let you try walking yet, but Alby was convinced it would be good for you.”

“It’s fine,” Newt said, tone flat and face still. “At least, it doesn’t hurt any more than usual. I don’t think I strained it, but I’m not in a hurry to try that again.”

“Did Alby talk to you about going back to your hut?”

“He mentioned it,” Newt replied. Jeff waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t.

Jeff watched him with a shrewd look on his face that Newt wasn’t entirely comfortable with. “If you don’t want to go back yet, I won’t make you,” he said. Newt pressed his lips together and didn’t answer. “He thought you’d be more comfortable at your own place,” Jeff continued hesitantly, “but if you want to stay here that’s fine. It’ll be easier for me to keep an eye on you here anyway.”

Newt released a breath. “I’d rather stay here.”

“Okay,” Jeff replied, nodding, and they said no more about it, for which Newt was grateful. 

Newt spent the rest of the day in a familiar haze of boredom broken only by his drawings and the brief visit Alby made to him once he had finished the Greenie’s tour and left him with Joe. Alby said he wanted to thank Newt for being there today, that he couldn’t have done it without him. Newt spoke as little as possible and tried not to make it obvious that he was annoyed with Alby for patronising him when he’d done absolutely nothing to help and Alby had done it all on his own.

When it came time for the bonfire celebration, Newt decided he would go, with Jeff’s blessing. He didn’t particularly feel like celebrating, but he also didn’t think it would be much fun to sit in the med-jack tent by himself, knowing everyone else was having fun without him.

But when he was sitting alone by a log, half-finished drink in hand, alcohol-induced fuzz clouding his brain, he only felt worse. Rather than distracting him, the brew seemed to intensify his feelings of shame and self-loathing, and he couldn’t stop thinking about all the exact thoughts he had been so desperate to avoid.

_You’re useless. You’re even worse off than before; at least before you could do stuff to help. Now you do nothing. Alby didn’t even need your help with the Greenie today. You have no place here anymore. No one wants or needs you._

The last time he had felt this lonely was right after coming up in the Box. Newt remembered how he had thought about ending it so many times in that first month, but he had decided to hold out in case things got better or they found an escape. And things had gotten better, for a while; as soon as Minho arrived, his life had improved dramatically. So how had he ended up back here?

One and one-third jars of brew later, Newt finally admitted it to himself: he missed Minho. He knew this newfound distance between them was at least partially his fault, but he also thought some of it might have been Minho’s doing, too. He was afraid Minho would want nothing more to do with him now that he knew how fucked up Newt was. Even if he miraculously hadn’t abandoned him right away, he would eventually realise that Newt was a lost cause and cut his losses. Newt was terrified of that day coming, yet at the same time part of him wanted to just get it over with already.

 _Just_ talk _to him, moron,_ something inside him said. Apparently he did still have one last shred of rationality remaining.

Newt looked over to where Minho sat by himself, staring into the fire. Justin had been sitting near him earlier, but now he was over on the other side of the fire talking to Frypan. If he was going to make an attempt, now was as good an opportunity as he was likely to get.

He noticed as soon as he stood up that the alcohol was affecting him more than he had thought; standing up on one leg while carefully manoeuvring his broken one was tricky at the best of times, but now with a tingling numbness spreading through his limbs, he stumbled even more than usual. He remembered this effect on his limbs from the last time he’d drunk Gally’s brew, but now it also made his broken leg hurt less. Or at least, it made him notice the pain less, which as far as he was concerned was just as good. However, it did make his attempts at walking distinctly less coordinated.

He limped over to Minho. “Hi, Min,” he said quietly. “Enjoying the bonfire?”

Minho fixed his eyes on Newt. “Oh, are you done avoiding me now?” It was only then that Newt noticed the jar of brew sitting half-empty by Minho’s feet, and a cold feeling of dread settled into the pit of his stomach. _This was a bad idea._

“I haven’t been avoiding you,” Newt answered, but he knew it was a lie. He’d been afraid to talk to Minho. He still was. “I’ve been confined to the med-jack tent, and you’ve been busy running.”

“I’ve always been busy running, but that’s never stopped us before,” Minho countered. “You barely even talk to me. If you’re not ready to talk about what happened, I get it, but I don’t understand why you’re pushing me away completely.”

At the mention of the Incident, a stab of fear went through Newt. _This was a terrible, terrible idea._ Suddenly all he wanted to do was leave. He had to get out of there, now.

Without bothering to say anything in the way of explanation, he pivoted on his good leg and hobbled away again. Minho didn’t call after him or attempt to stop him, and Newt couldn’t decide if he was unhappy about that or not.

With difficulty, Newt rounded the corner behind Fry's food station, but to his surprise he saw that he hadn't been the only one angling for some privacy. The space behind the food station was already occupied by someone, currently knelt down, bent double and heaving their guts out onto the ground. In the darkness, with their face turned toward the ground as they retched violently, Newt couldn’t tell who it was.

Newt stopped in his tracks. There was a pause, and the person sat back and wiped their mouth on their sleeve. It was Adam.

"Shit," he said when he looked up and saw Newt watching him. He looked guilty for some reason, like he had been caught out.

The scene in front of him fractured into pieces. He wasn't sure why, but something was off.  
He couldn't account for the distinctly incriminating expression on Adam's face; there was nothing unusual about vomiting after drinking too much brew, it was an unfortunate but not wholly uncommon occurrence. Although now that he thought about it, Newt couldn't recall seeing Adam drink any brew tonight. He was one of the boys who rarely drank, and Newt had never seen him drink so much that he threw up.

Newt tilted his head, taking in the way Adam’s baggy clothes were hanging off him, the way his index finger looked red and raw, the hollow in his cheeks and the gauntness of his frame that Newt somehow hadn’t noticed until now.

 _Oh,_ he thought, and suddenly everything clicked into place.

Adam turned over his shoulder and spat. “If you tell anyone, I’ll tell them all that your mysterious leg injury was no accident.” His voice was sharp and his eyes were even more so as he regarded Newt carefully, waiting to see how he would respond. Newt was reminded vividly of a snake, coiled and ready to strike in the space between seconds.

Newt still said nothing. He and Adam watched each other, the tension between them mounting.

Newt was the first to break. “I won’t tell anyone,” he said evenly. “How did you know?”

“About your leg?” Adam asked, turning to lean heavily against the wall and sliding his legs out in front of him. He shrugged. “I didn’t really, until now. But something didn’t add up. Plus it tracks, with your history.”

“What are you talking about, my history?”

Adam watched Newt closely, like he was sizing him up. “I pay attention to things. If you pay attention, there’s plenty to see.” He ticked off on his fingers, like he was counting. “When you’re going through an episode, you get all quiet and withdrawn, and you stop eating. Henry started wearing those wristbands a few weeks ago, and he never takes them off where anyone can see. When Fry’s lonely, he tries to fill the void with food. And Gally, for all he talks a tough game, he’s just one harsh word away from jumping off the lookout tower himself.”

Newt resisted the urge to protest that he hadn’t jumped off the lookout tower. The distinction probably wouldn’t matter to Adam, anyway.

Carefully, he lowered himself down to sit next to Adam, letting his broken leg stick out to the side. “Christ,” he said, his voice remarkably mild. “We’re a messed up bunch, aren’t we?”

Adam leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. He almost looked serene. “We’re all just trying to deal in our own way. But we never learned how to do it the right way, and now the wrong ways are stuck in our brains and every time we fuck up it strengthens the wrong neural pathways.”

Newt shot him a puzzled look. “What the fuck are you on about?”

“The things that happen to us shape our neural pathways, affect how our brains work,” Adam said matter-of-factly. “We can’t remember the things that caused them anymore, but those pathways are still there, and they still affect how we think and act.” He leaned away from Newt and spat off to the side again, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Somewhere back in my past I learned that being able to control my weight makes me feel better about not being able to control anything else. I don’t remember learning it, but it’s ingrained, woven into my synapses, the same way I know how to construct a simple pulley system or you know the best way to plant corn.”

It made sense. Newt wasn’t sure if it was true, but something inside him gravitated to Adam’s words even as they terrified him. Was this what was wrong with him? Faulty wiring in his brain?

“Can’t you - ” Newt started, still thinking the words through as he spoke them, “is there a way to… I don’t know, to re-write the neural pathways? Un-learn something?”

“I’m trying,” Adam told him. He looked up into Newt’s eyes, strangely vulnerable. “But it’s hard. And sometimes I fuck up.”

Newt looked back for as long as he could, but he couldn’t take the intensity in Adam’s gaze. “When did you learn how to be an asshole?” he asked as he looked away, voice light and unconcerned, and Adam finally cracked a smile.

“Oh, I was born with that,” he shot back, raising an eyebrow at Newt. He pushed off from the ground and stood up in one fluid motion, sending a wave of jealousy through Newt. He made it look so easy. He took a few seconds to kick dirt over the puddle of sick until it was completely covered, then turned back to Newt. “Our little secret?”

Newt nodded once, solemnly, and with that Adam walked off without a backward glance. As soon as he was gone, Newt leaned his head back against the wall and sighed heavily.

He didn’t know what to think. He didn’t want to think at all. He wanted another drink. He’d left his last one by the fire, and he couldn’t go back for it unless he wanted to face Minho again, which he very much did not.

Newt wondered why his own mind seemed to hate him. He’d had problems with this before, but it was ten times worse now, since the Incident. These horrible, awful things would just pop into his head without his control, and he didn’t know how to stop them.

Adam’s words kept coming back to him; they wouldn’t leave his head. If he was right, Newt wasn’t the only fucked up one, and Newt was inclined to believe him. He’d witnessed something of Adam’s own damage, at the very least.

Maybe it was like Adam said. Ingrained neural pathways. Faulty wiring in his brain. Other people didn’t seem to hate themselves all the time, with the possible exception of Adam, but that didn’t exactly reassure him. From what he’d seen, Adam was as miserable as he was.

Who else was miserable that he didn’t even know about? Newt thought about Henry and his wristbands, about Fry and and his excessive comfort food. If they were struggling too, then wasn’t that proof that he wasn’t a complete failure?

Then why did he still feel so alone? Why did he still feel like the only broken one?

_You’re so stupid. Other people have it even worse than you, and all you can do is sit there and feel sorry for yourself. You think you’re the only one suffering? You just never paid attention to anyone else. You’re self-centred and self-absorbed._

Newt’s eyes burned. Where was this coming from? Why were these thoughts even in his mind?

Adam was right. His brain had faulty wiring. _You’re cracked, you’re cracked, you’re cracked. Your brain is wrong._ Minho knew, Adam knew. Alby and Jeff probably knew. Everyone probably knew; if they didn’t, it wouldn’t take long for them to find out.

_They all hate you. They think you’re pathetic and annoying. They know your brain is fucked up and they all talk about you behind your back and laugh at you._

He couldn’t take this anymore. He needed another drink. He neatly ignored the fact that this strategy hadn’t worked at all so far, and clambered to his feet to stumble off and find more of Gally’s brew.

He made it through another glass, drinking faster than he’d ever drunk the brew before, and he knew this was dangerous and a bad idea, but he also couldn’t bring himself to care. He wanted to drink until there was nothing left to feel.

But when he went for another, Gally wouldn’t give it to him. Newt squinted, watching Gally cross his arms defiantly through eyes that wouldn’t quite focus. He frowned, waiting for Gally to move or say something that made sense, but he didn’t. He just kept staring at Newt belligerently.

“I want another drink,” Newt said. He couldn’t tell how loud he was speaking, but his voice scraped on the way out, and he thought he might be shouting.

“No,” Gally said, still standing firm. He towered over Newt, and even though Newt knew Gally could knock him flat in a second, he felt the insane urge to smack him in the face. “I’m cutting you off. You’ve had enough for one night.”

Newt leveled his best glare at Gally, but it didn’t do anything. “Don’t tell me what to do,” he said. The anger rising inside him felt dangerous and irrational. If he lost control he could easily hurt himself as much as anyone else. He could imagine this playing out a dozen different ways, and in every single one, he came out the worse for wear.

_Good._

The thought was savage and unfamiliar. He didn’t care.

Dimly he was aware of Gally trying to reason with him. He thought there were other boys gathering, saying things, but their faces were nothing more than blurry smudges.

“Come on, Newt, don’t be like this. I’m trying to help you,” Gally was saying.

“You can help me by letting me have another drink,” Newt hissed. This whole thing was ridiculous. Who was Gally to stop him doing whatever he wanted? _(You’re cracked. You’re cracked and they all know it. Your brain is wrong.)_

“No,” Gally repeated stubbornly. “It’s my brew, and I say you’ve had enough.”

Newt ground his teeth. He could probably just go around Gally. The idiot probably wouldn’t actually stop him if he pushed hard enough. “Why?” he spat out.

“It’s supposed to be for fun, but you’re using it to hurt yourself. I’m not going to just sit back and let you.”

So Gally thought he knew everything about Newt, did he? _(You’re cracked, you’re cracked. Faulty wiring. Everyone knows.)_ “You don’t fucking know anything.”

“I know you’ve had a rough time lately - ”

_No no no no no -_

“ - what with your leg and everything - ”

_\- no no no no no don’t say it -_

“ - but I’m afraid you’re going to - ”

_NO NO NO NO NO SHUT UP_

“ - hurt yours- ”

“SHUT UP! SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Newt shouted. He hadn’t realised he’d actually spoken out loud until the livid scream tore out of his throat. He hated Gally. He hated him. “JUST SHUT UP YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT THE FUCK YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT JUST _SHUT UP._ ”

Gally finally had the sense to look shocked. “Newt, I’m trying to help you,” he said again, and Newt didn’t think he was imagining the resentful note in Gally’s voice.

 _I don’t want your fucking help._

Newt’s anger flashed hot and white behind his eyes. He hated Gally more than he could ever remember hating anyone; he was too small and weak to attack Gally physically but he wanted to reach inside his mind and hurt him, hurt him with his worst fears and insecurities, and in an instant he knew exactly what to say.

“No wonder Alby dumped you, he probably got sick of you thinking you need to control everyone all the time.”

Gally’s face went deadly still. “Take it back,” he said quietly.

Newt pushed on, vicious and cruel, knowing he should hate himself for this but instead feeling a sick satisfaction. “I can’t take it back,” he said. “Even if I wanted to, you already know it’s true. You drove Alby away because you’re a bullying, controlling piece of sh-”

He didn’t remember falling; he only remembered Gally’s fist making contact with the side of his head and the next thing he knew he was on the ground, treetops spinning above him in dizzying circles. There were shouts of alarm, and he thought he could hear Jeff’s voice louder than the others, but he couldn’t make out what he was saying. A wave of nausea threatened to engulf him, but he fought it down.

He should probably sit up and assess the damage, but it was so comfortable here on the ground, and he’d had so much to drink that it was hard to keep his eyes open. He couldn’t feel his leg, so it was probably fine. Everything was still spinning but he couldn’t tell if it was because of the blow to the head or the alcohol; either way, the best thing he could do was probably to just sleep it off. The last thought he remembered before slipping into darkness was that he was not going to enjoy waking up in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "just talk to him, moron" line was inspired by astralpenguin because of all the times she's yelled at Newt in the comments to communicate better or to stop being so hard on himself lol and I wanted to give her a way to actually reach into the story and yell at Newt in person. So basically she is responsible for Newt's one (1) rational thought this chapter :P


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost through the tunnel of sad and angsty! Should be a lot lighter from here =D (for a while at least lol).

The sun was high in the sky, its light beating down on him and making the blanket tucked around him uncomfortably warm by the time Newt woke up. He squinted and rolled over, wincing from the pounding in his head and the nausea that flared up simultaneously.

He sat up slowly. His neck ached, his entire body was sore, his mouth was so dry that his tongue was sticking to the inside of it, and he felt itchy and dirty from sleeping on the ground. Apparently they’d decided to just leave him where he fell last night. Newt wondered who had put the blanket on him.

“Oh hey, you’re up,” a voice said. Newt squinted up to see Jeff. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Like I’ve been beaten and left for dead,” Newt answered, with some difficulty. It was hard to talk around a tongue that felt twice its usual size.

“We didn’t leave you for dead,” Jeff said, smiling sheepishly. “Just for… asleep. We checked that you were breathing.”

“How kind of you.” Newt groaned and leaned down so his head was between his knees. His headache pulsed behind his eyes, and thought he might throw up.

“Here, you could probably use this.”

Newt looked up to see that Jeff was offering him a cup of water, and he took it gratefully. It was such a relief when it crossed his dry, cracked lips, Newt would swear it was the best thing he had ever tasted.

Jeff collapsed down next to him. “So, last night.” He looked sideways at Newt.

Newt avoided his gaze by looking straight ahead. Memories of the night before came back to him in bits and pieces, and with each one he felt a fresh wave of nausea. He wasn’t sure if it was due to the lingering effects of the alcohol, or if it was from the deep, visceral shame.

He’d had a full-on meltdown in front of practically everyone. How was he supposed to face any of them after this? Especially Gally. Oh god, Gally. He’d said some horrible things to him last night.

“Do we have to talk about it?” Newt asked pitifully.

“Kinda, yeah,” Jeff answered. “I’ve been trying not to push you because I thought you would eventually come around on your own, but it doesn’t look like that’s happening, so. We need to do something.”

“Yeah? Like what?” Newt laughed grimly.

“I don’t know,” Jeff admitted. “I know you need help, but I have no idea how to help you.”

“And you think I do?”

“No, I know you don’t. That’s part of the problem, isn’t it?”

Newt exhaled heavily. They sat without talking for several minutes, until finally Newt broke the silence.

"I appreciate that you want to help," he said slowly, weighing his words carefully, "but I don't think it would be fair for me to dump all of my shit on you. I'm sure you have your own shit to deal with, you don't need all mine as well, it would be too much."

“Maybe,” Jeff allowed. “But it doesn’t have to be just me. You could talk to a couple different people, sort of… divide the responsibility, if that makes sense. But I don’t think it’s very healthy for you to just try to tough it out on your own, either.”

Newt smiled wryly. “Is that your way of telling me I need professional help?”

Jeff huffed a laugh. “I wish. Hey, maybe next month they’ll send us a licensed psychiatrist up in the box, huh? I think I could use some therapy myself.”

Newt didn’t respond, falling into thoughtful silence once more.

“Will you at least promise to think about it?” Jeff asked after a while.

“Yeah, alright,” Newt agreed. “Hey, what time is it, do you know?”

“It’s a little past midday,” Jeff told him. “You’ve probably got a couple more hours before Minho gets back, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Newt looked down but didn’t bother denying it. A few hours was perfect. He had some things he wanted to see to before he faced Minho again. He hesitated, then spoke.

“I think I should go back to sleeping in my old place again.”

Jeff smiled. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

“Yeah,” Newt said with a sigh. “It’s time. I’ve been avoiding things for too long.”

Jeff stood up, then helped Newt to his feet and made sure he was alright to walk on his own before letting him amble off towards his old hut.

When he stepped inside, a feeling of calm familiarity swept over him. It felt… like _home._ And suddenly he couldn’t remember why he had avoided coming back for so long.

After he’d sat for a while, basking in the comfortableness of being home, worked some of the soreness out of his limbs and then tidied himself up as best he could after his night sleeping in dirt, he went out in search of the Builders.

He had a lot of apologising to do.

When he approached the group, most of the boys avoided eye contact. He wondered it if was because of last night, then decided that the only way to deal with it was to keep moving forward. He couldn’t go back and undo it, and it wasn’t like he could avoid them all or get away from them. They were all imprisoned in this place together.

One of the few boys who would meet his eye was Adam. Newt limped up to him, relieved to have someone to talk to and at least momentarily delay the inevitable shitstorm with Gally.

“Hi, Adam.”

“Hi Newt.”

Botb boys looked at each other with new understanding. Adam smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You okay?” Newt asked.

“Better,” Adam answered. “Sleeping helps. It’s like a reset button. You?”

Newt nodded. “It works wonders,” he said drily, and Adam nodded back once before turning back to his task. Newt continued toward Gally, trepidation mounting. This was bound to be uncomfortable to say the least.

“Hey Gally, can I talk to you for a second?”

Gally dusted his hands on his trousers and turned a severe look on Newt before finally nodding and following him as he limped a short distance away where they could have at least some semblance of privacy.

Newt cut right to the chase. “I’m sorry I said those things last night. I was feeling cornered so I lashed out, but I didn’t mean those awful things I said and I’m really sorry.”

Gally regarded him silently for a few seconds. “I’m sorry for hitting you,” he said stiffly.

Newt laughed. “No, you’re not,” he said.

To Newt’s surprise, Gally actually smiled. “No, not really.” He thought for a moment. “Actually, I am, but only because I knew what you were doing and I let you get to me anyway. I was trying to stop you hurting yourself, and then I went and let you manipulate me into doing it for you.”

Newt looked at Gally in confusion. “What?”

Gally shot him a knowing look. “I know what self-destructive looks like, Newt. Maybe you didn’t know you were doing it, but part of you wanted to make me angry so I would hit you. Because deep down, for whatever reason, you think you deserve it.”

“I… I don’t - ” Newt stuttered, struggling to follow. “How do you - what makes you think - ”

Gally’s mouth had a grim set to it. “You don’t, you know. Deserve it.”

Newt fell silent, gazing back at Gally with his eyes stinging and a lump rising in his throat. He didn’t want to have a full emotional breakdown in front of Gally for the second time in as many days, and anyway he’d already said what he came to say, so he nodded and turned to hobble away as fast as his broken leg would allow. Thankfully, Gally let him go without saying more.

Newt thought over the encounter. It had gone surprisingly well, much better than he had expected. Gally seemed to understand more than he let on.

Maybe things weren’t quite as bad as he had thought.

Newt waited out the remainder of the time until Minho came back in his hut, resting his leg and drawing. And also trying to figure out how on earth he was going to explain himself to Minho.

He hadn’t gotten very far before he realised it was later than he’d thought because Minho was walking up to the open doorway, and stopping in surprise when he saw Newt sitting inside.

“Hey,” Newt said tentatively. “Fancy a chat?”

Minho blinked but said nothing. He walked inside and stood in front of Newt expectantly, though, which he took as an answer in the affirmative.

Newt hesitated. He still hadn’t worked out what to say, and now that Minho was stood here in front of him, he felt like nothing he could ever say would be good enough, or could possibly encompass everything he desperately needed to say.

Minho was waiting patiently. _Just get right to the point,_ Newt thought. _Like with Gally._

“I’m sorry,” Newt said. Then, remembering what Minho had said before about apologies, he added, “about last night. I was… I don’t know what exactly is going on with me, but I was being horrible to you. And I’m really sorry.”

Minho’s mouth twisted unhappily. “Some of it was my fault, too,” he said. “You finally tried to reach out to me and I was a dick because I was annoyed that you’d been ignoring me.”

Newt shook his head. “It was mostly my fault, though. I _was_ avoiding you.”

“It’s not a fault contest,” Minho told him.

Newt smiled in spite of himself. “But if it was, we both know I would win.”

Minho rolled his eyes. “Anyway,” he said, drawing out the word. “Apology accepted. Thank you.”

Minho sat down beside him on the bed, close enough that their shoulders touched. They sat for what felt like at least five full minutes in silence before Minho spoke again.

“If I hadn’t been a dick last night when you came to talk to me, what would you have said?”

Newt considered. “I’m not actually sure,” he admitted. “I didn’t really have a plan. I just… missed you. I missed talking to you.”

Newt could see Minho’s face out of the corner of his eye; enough to gauge his reactions but still removed enough to feel safer than looking directly at him. He wondered if Minho knew that, if that was why he had chosen to sit down next to Newt in the first place.

“I missed you too,” Minho said softly, and Newt turned his head just enough to see Minho looking back at him with eyes shining. “What happened?”

Newt knew what he was asking. He faced forward again; this would be difficult enough without making eye contact. Newt swallowed, then sniffed. It was harder than he’d thought it would be to say the words, like speaking them aloud made them somehow more true, but he knew he needed to do this. His eyes welled up with tears.

“I tried to kill myself.”

A tear spilled over, first one eye and then the other, and trickled down his cheeks. He sniffed again and turned away from Minho as he wiped under his eyes. “I know there’s something wrong with me, but I don’t know how to fix it,” he continued, wondering how to explain the faulty wiring theory. “I want to get better, but I don’t know how.”

Minho closed his eyes and exhaled like he’d been holding his breath, waiting for Newt to say that. Newt watched him out of the corner of his eye, and when Minho opened his eyes again, they were full of determination. “I’ll help you, in any way I can. And not just me; a lot of people care about you, Newt, Jeff and Gally and Fry and Alby, all of them. We’ll figure this out. Let us help you.”

Newt shook his head sadly. “I don’t even know where to start.”

Minho offered him a small smile. “You said you want to get better. That’s where you start.”

Newt couldn’t stop the choked sob that escaped him. “But what do I do next?”

Minho bit his lip, thinking. “Do you think you can get through the next fifteen seconds?” he asked, and Newt had a brief flash of memory, of pain, of leaning on Minho’s shoulder as they counted together, desperation flooding his senses.

Newt nodded slowly.

“Then let’s just get through the next fifteen seconds, and when that’s over we can worry about the next fifteen seconds after that.”

Newt blinked rapidly. “Thanks, Min,” he said.

“Oh, by the way, I almost forgot, I made something for you,” Minho said casually, as if they hadn’t just been discussing a life or death situation.

“You… made something? For me?” Newt repeated, incredulous.

“Yeah,” Minho said, rummaging in his pack and pulling out a small bundle. “I was going to save it for your birthday next month, but I figured it might be useful for you so it would be better to give it to you now.” He handed the bundle to Newt, who took it with numb hands and barely looked at it.

“My birthday next month?” he asked, face twisting in confusion. He felt two steps behind; all he could do was repeat Minho’s words.

“Well, as close to a birthday as we can get,” Minho amended. “Go ahead, open it!” He made a shooing motion at Newt, clearly excited for him to look at the bundle.

Newt slowly and carefully unwrapped a layer of rough cloth. Underneath was a beautiful, thick stack of paper, painstakingly hand-sewn together and bound in leather. He opened it, and saw page after page of clean, blank expanse, waiting to be filled.

“Did you… make this?” he managed to choke out around the lump burning in his throat. He felt overwhelmed with so many emotions; gratitude and affection mixed with painful longing and piercing hope.

“Yeah,” Minho said, smiling slightly. “I noticed you’ve been drawing a lot recently, so I thought you might want somewhere to put your drawings, and I also thought you might want somewhere to be able to write stuff down. I don’t know, it might help you process stuff or make sense of it or something, or it might just help to have somewhere to say things you don’t feel comfortable telling anyone.”

“When did you make this? And how?”

“Oh, you know, I found bits here and there,” Minho shrugged. “So… do you like it?”

Newt made a strangled noise in his throat. “Like it? Are you kidding? I love it! It’s perfect, Minho, thank you.”

Minho grinned, glowing with pride, and Newt threw an arm around him and buried his face in Minho’s shoulder so he wouldn’t break down sobbing and confuse Minho even further. Minho returned the embrace easily and patted his back. One of his hands came to rest on the back of Newt’s neck, stroking idly at his hair, and Newt knew that they would be okay again.


End file.
